You know, sometimes I get so happy that I can’t even stand it. I lay down on my yoga mat—to add a bit of cushion, so as the floor isn’t so uncomfortable—and listen to Groove Salad (an eclectic mix of laid back tracks that never cease to stream from the internet.) And I stare at the ceiling, or close my eyes—meditate; and sometimes ruminate on what may be my final demise (shall I be a victim of some deranged soul who enjoys to strangulate and mutilate and violate? I hope not. That would be terrible.)
And sometimes I pretend that I’m somewhere real nice—somewhere filled with lots of people who care about me, and think I’m so fun and interesting. We go out every evening to dine; to laugh and eat and drink wine—and generally just have a good time. Oh, and in this idyllic world, days quickly go by—because everyone is so happy that our souls seem to fly, and we are as content as if we were all eating a home baked pie (and you know, it seems as though we’ll never die.) It’s such a great place.
But then sometimes when from my dream I awaken, and realize again that the life I live is one that has been forsaken; it is then that my brain starts to undulate, and I very nearly reach the verge—and get such an intense urge—to hyperventilate. So I step out for fresh air—brush my hand through my hair—and try to pretend that the whole world is fair. You know, the brightness of the day really rouses and refreshes my senses; so I drive around town for hours looking at the world through various lenses—but not a one of the lenses really clarify the shifting, insubstantial something that my mind is constantly on the verge of grabbing in hand, but can fully understand. Because my thoughts are fragmented; my words are garbled.
Sometimes it is difficult to read—my mind is struck by this creamy coagulation that no amount of meditation serves to complete its total eradication and annihilation from my consciousness.
So sometimes I walk through this one park; random ladies saunter around, and I just sit and listen to their dogs bark. I lay; and sink into the cool, damp carpet of grass. There are bugs that click and crick; and there are birds that tweet—and sound so sweet. Of course I itch (those tiny little grass bugs can really be a bitch) and must get up. I walk in and out of the trees, feeling such the slightest breeze (I am, of course, constantly aware of any dog droppings that may wish to squish against my delicate bare feet.)
But it's not like I have a set routine that I do day after day after day—it’s not as if my entire life is just a somber, slow struggle to waste time. No, my life’s not so bad; I don’t mind being alone—inside of me, there is a place I retreat to; a place where I play in a cool spring stream, and jump about and laugh and run and have so much fun.
Life is not dreary or anything. It certainly isn’t dismal. It's not like I have no friends or anything like that. Anyway, how could anyone be sad when it's such a beautiful day out? When everything is taken care of, and there’s nothing in the world to worry about? And besides, God knows where to find me—right?