I
wonder what I am supposed to whisper to myself before I go to sleep
to make the voices go away.
“It's
going to be okay,” I'll say, but I'm not so sure. I don't know what
comforting quote to recite over and over again. It reminds me of the
first couple lines of my memoir that I wrote a couple months ago.
“What’s
the point? At the end of the day, I’m still under the covers
clutching my polar bear sheets with supposedly iron fists but truth
be told, I’m just a butterfly pinned to some pretty piece of paper
in an overpriced glass case waiting for someone to set me free but
that’s never going to happen and I’m still sitting here,
smiling.”
No
one interpreted it right. It reminds me of the rain droplets staining
my window, their beauty the cause of the endless conjectures of
symbolism.
“It's
just rain,” I'll mutter to myself, turning to yet another TV screen
for a way to block out reality.
But,
every once in a while something like The
Alchemist
comes along and I'll wonder what if symbolism isn't just pretty
bullshit but something real, something I can grip with my hands? What
if symbolism isn't just another idea that gives people like me a
thousand potential realities to contemplate? I wonder.
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