Unwrapping the Worlds Beneath the Words
As a person who feels a lot, who feels emotions so strongly it’s like I’m busting the pink pipes of my heart with every elephantine pulse, whose soul is an electric bloodbath bleeding the embers of Eve’s first PMS nightmare, I am destined to be fazed. Some can roar on by like wildebeests cloaked in a suit of ice-cold iron and cough blood without batting an eye, who slap their outdated feelzies out of their face the moment they begin to swarm it in a flock of flaxen dots. This special breed of warrior humanoid is known to keep a face as bitchy as a pack of wild dogs and a soul-garden so dry it rivals the humor of a bitter Brit. Only cacti and curses and pickled porcupines inhabit this garden—anything weak is welcome to die.
But me, I can fake the scowl of a warrior only so long. I can pretend to be the Nazi, but just for a nanosecond before I break into a harmonious hugging spree. I can act like an asshole, but in the end I’d rather be a peach. Or a pillow made of cashmere. Or a cumulus cloud comprised of cotton candy, that chugs through the sky kissing the earth in shadows.
It’s almost as if my nervous system is too electric for my body, with my wiring all warped and wry in my tiny frame—like I’m a bundle of concentrated nerves compacted into a single atom… as if a mega-computer were crammed into the skull of an unarmed teddy bear. I have the guts of a Goliathan in the form of a peanut butter plop, with the punch of paper mache and the monologue of a mime. My blood is silken scarlet housed in a microscopic engine, and she’s happy to keep gobbling up years and manifesting memories and keep the huffing puffing wolf of life alive, but sadly she keeps getting choked to near death by the toxic influx of foreign affairs. Too much data, not enough drawers. Vanilla or chocolate? Mortgage, or homelessness? Job, or homelessness? Taxes or prison? Health and happiness, or death and despair? I am boggled to the brim by the sheer weight of life’s extremes and the vast potpourri of choices set before me.
Plus, I’ve always been told that moderation is key, but it doesn’t seem like life obeys this rule. Life is a fickle player to please. At one moment she’s the only hope you’ve got, because she embodies the path you’ll follow if you want to live here, and the only concept in which your existence finds its possibility. Life. And on the other hand, she’s a psychopath stalker streamlining every single feasible folly straight into your soup and laughing while you sputter on the spice.
But she’ll keep on tipping scales and tossing ships and throwing our sanities into the nothingness of the cosmos like the clever girl she is, because that’s how she keeps us busy. What on Earth would we do if life did not keep us busy? We might actually have a well-formed thought for once, or cook a satisfying meal, or maybe have a moment to contemplate the ugliness of our government. And where would we go with that? There’d be no end to the mental merry-making. We’d go from single to married in a millisecond and how would the airlines handle the deluge of honeymooning revolutionists?
One moment we’d be finishing up a pot of broiled ambrosia and congratulating ourselves on finally finding the time cook for ourselves—and after a split-second of personal improvements we’d wake to discover that we’re now parading through the streets like Braveheart, shirtless and reckless and wearing tribal war paint on our faces and little leather thongs like the Na’vi people, prancing on our way to paint the White House Oompa Loompa orange.