Tinkerbell smile

I'd like to say something, finally, that is beautiful and eloquent and lyrical. I'd like to be able to craft sentences like spun gold, to hone my delivery with a knife-sharp precision -- I'd like to feel content in the knowledge that I'd added another glass bauble to the exquisite string of jewels that constitutes "being." I'd like to be able to wring such emotion from individuals so as to leave them speechless; I'd like to be able to soothe ache, to cure sorrow, to seed solace. I would like, above all things, to evoke in other minds the imagery that constantly taunts me with indescribable qualities.

How utterly horrid it is to feel nebulous, indefinite feelings that flash silver underbellies in the dark -- and then disappear when language attempts to make of them sensible descriptions! How alone it makes one feel to know that there are emotions roiling beneath the thick surface of a self-imposed silence...and that there are no words (nor were there ever) poignant enough to describe the strangeness. And such strangeness it is! This strangeness continues to make me think -- continues to make me feel -- that I am slowly, gradually, hopelessly losing my mind. I am ever and always the complacent, suffering victim. I am ever and always a prisoner of myself.

Don't talk to me anymore of absolutes and strength. Don't talk to me anymore of a principle duality. I'm so tired of attempting to fix myself; I'm so tired of attempting to rouse the old and buried qualities that I once possessed. This me that I have allowed myself to erect, erstwhile unknown (and never dreamed of), has quickly and completely taken over the blue-eyed cocoon. Don't talk to me like I'm a child. Don't tell me that I am needed and adored -- daily conversation is a dreamt up thing and I am loved only when the contours of my face are bathed in your little lamplight.

I am losing my mind. It's a perpetual drowning. A numbing procession.

My sister's left again. I am alone again. The high and low record sounds (with their bodiless discussions) invade my solitude again.

How warm and secure and content I felt while she was here! She calls us twins...she calls us "bound souls." I call us matching pieces to life's puzzle. There is no one on this earth with whom I would discuss the intricacies of pain and pride -- no one except for Amanda. And now she's back in Texas, and now I sit in my room with a book and a broken bottle, and now I confide my secrets to the dark air surrounding a disheveled bed. I am a doll with yarn hair and glass eyes; I am a sweet and plastic-limbed thing; I am guilty, I am purposeless, and I am unnecessary.

I am losing my mind. Bet you didn't know. Ting-a-ling.