Ms. Ruin's Playthings

"The imagination imitates. It is the critical spirit that creates." -Oscar Wilde

Thursday, September 15, 2011

a little something

“I’m tired!” she exclaimed.  Surfacing from behind a book, one which she had hid behind for days –at least it started that way.  But those days had turned to weeks and weeks to months and well, you know how that goes.  The book slammed shut, falling onto the hardwood floor but not before meeting the wall at speeds that would leave Greg Maddux scratching his head.  She sat up straight in bed and bolted towards the red sofa that sat in the middle of the room like a bull facing off with a matador, a very costly bull.  Sure, most would pay top dollar for said red sofa with its plush pillows; after all, the salesman stated that sitting in it was like being enveloped in love.  And who doesn’t want to be swathed by such a strong emotion?  But it wasn’t love to her, it wasn’t that at all.  She had a way about her, a way of transforming objects into holding cells for her thoughts and ideas.  Sadly this was a place where all affirmations would meet their maker; it was a place of sadness and madness, all rolled up into one and shoved deep into the fibers of each cushion by her fists as she cried “WHY!!” over and over again. 

“Why do I complicate everything and everyone?!?!” she thought, sobbing so hard, choking on tears.  Every decision made in the past was today’s destiny.  Every stroke of hair, every picture captured, every word spoken, every thought on paper, every time she darted from one room to another searching for answers in the dead silence…it had all culminated to this, to this crashed soul gasping for air after suffocating her own cries.  “What am I hiding from?  Why am I shielding my anguish?  Why do I break myself down further than wrecked?” she hurriedly slapped her hair behind her ears, pushing her fingertips deep into her face, a little pain sometimes shocked her back to a state of semi-normalcy.  But she didn’t flinch.  Could it be?  Could it truly be?  Could she possibly be sick and tired of being sick and tired?  “God, I’m not a madwoman, I’m not, I’m just not.  God, I am your child, you know this, why am I telling you something you know already?  Dear sweet Lord, save me, save me, save me from my torment, sometimes it seems that I am in too deep” she prayed. 

She held her tears for a moment, stopping them dead in their tracks; sitting still she waited for God’s declaration that her crying and her prayers had not fallen deaf.  But the only thing that enveloped her on the red sofa was solitude.  “Of course, of course, of fricking course there is no recourse for my emotional flailing” she said as she wiped away an evading tear.  She knew she couldn’t blame her broken heart on anyone, not even on God.  “How is that fair?” she thought.  “This is fair.  This IS fair.  THIS is fair.  THIS IS FAIR” she processed.  “This is absolutely fair…you hear me God, and you’re laughing at my dumb ass, aren’t you?”  She chuckled and let her eyes release their captors.  Had she cried and screamed herself to reason?  Was her self-deprecation his answer?  And how is that valid comfort?  “I ask entirely too many questions, don’t I, God?”  She exhaled, not knowing when she would return to that place on the red sofa.  For now though, a band aid over her heart would have to do, life wasn’t stopping to aid her tantrums.  “Thank you for answering, God –although you have a really funny way about yourself, but you know I appreciate a deity with soundless theatrical poise.  I’ll save you a seat on this red sofa…the salesman said it would envelop you like love.  I think he’s onto something.”   

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