Trust In Silence

An essay by Miss Angell

Help me! I am lost.  I need to be somewhere where I am not judged.  I need to be there now; an instant passage to satisfaction, except I won’t ever be satisfied.  I am the absolute wanderer, forever spinning forward.  If only I could stop time.  I am too old for this.  I am too old and I am not getting any younger.  I am deeply pained and sometimes I forget.  Just when I think I am okay, I sink, drowning in my own perpetual vomit.   I talk a good game when I am awake, on dry land.  I preach my gospel all the way to the open sea.  This is where I slip into a destructive coma.  Oh, but I write, a beautiful prose elucidating my ugly chaos.  I have found nothing here, but loneliness and my talent.  Where is my balance?  It is non-existent.  Work, alcohol, cigarettes, boredom, confusion, relocation then feelings of loneliness.  I laugh sometimes.  I know what I am doing, sometimes.  No home.  No space.  No money, then enough money… accumulation, then elimination. This is my life.  No solid meaning. No sustainable relationships, except for those who share the same blood.  I float in a stagnant pond at all times.  I am no one and I have been for a long time.  I need to be needed or I slip away into a narrow tunnel big enough only for me.   I have seen so much.  I just want a place to hide.  I have always been happiest in seclusion.  Surrounded in the background by those I love.  Confusion and isolation have become my comfortable habit. 

 

This sedation of mine comes in waves.  My tide ebbs into a sea of hidden meanings, then flows back towards a clear shore.  I am tired…always.  Passion sparks my energy.  It also feeds my emotions, sending me back into my cave. Am I incapable of making logical decisions?  I am deprived of affection.  I need something more.  I cannot live like a hologram anymore.  I am tired…always tired.  Bored of all that I have chosen to see.  Grass, houses, trees…roads, the long winding ones that make me sick, the black ones that smell like ash, the ones with the potholes that seem to never end.  I hate this life I have carved out for myself and I am afraid of where it is going to end.  I want to be five again, so I do not have to think of what I am going to do next.  A sense of immortality soothes me.