Sometimes I feel like I'm suffocating and there are all these hands on my throat and covering my nose and holding a pillow to my face. And it makes me want to run away to the old tintic mine in Goshen and wheatpaste my feelings for a week. Or surround myself with hairless cats and sing them lullabies until they fall asleep. Or purchase 80 million rolls of black and white film and shoot my life story so I can give it to a homeless person who will just burn it for warmth or to get their next heroin fix.
And then all that will be left will be crumpled tin foil and ashes.
You know? I don't want crumpled tin foil. I want nice, crisp, clean tin foil. The kind that hasn't ever been touched or used. The kind that fits perfect over the broccoli and cheese I just gave to my mother because I was sick of the taste.
I want that tin foil.
I want those cats meowing in harmony with my lullabies.
I want to meet Shepard Fairey while I'm in Goshen and chat with him. Or maybe even Banksy, and see just how a small girl searches a police officer. Ya, Banksy would be nice.
But, honestly? These hands are not going to stop shoving down feather pillows on me. They aren't going away, no matter how hard I push them. They are growing on me. They are growing into my skin. We are melting together in this not-so-winterish-weather. It's sick and it's wrong and it's driving me crazy.
But, it's just something that happens sometimes and we all have to deal with it.
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