Your human drama tickles my nose

I can’t worry about your Greek tragedies and your Shakespearean proclamations. Give me an hour in a room with rainbow colours and a warm sensation any day. When you wake up to your frozen toes in a sea of dark, dank moss, you’ll see, you’ll find me, beyond that marker in the field, across a clichéd ocean and a sky of blue, beneath a white awning with a fawn and a flower (cherry blossoms or maybe tulips), sipping pear cider and remarking on how sweet.

I have a song in my head that dictates the words to me. Those in turn dictate the thoughts. I’m not wild, not cool, not pretty, nor fresh. I barely speak, I mumble, I think, I react unduly. But you don’t know me, no, you don’t know me. I’ll be wearing a sundress when it rains and a coat in the summer. When you’ve shed your expectations (shed them beyond doubt, not on the surface, but of it), my gleam may flicker in your eye, blindsiding you. Resist the urge to soften your focus. Stay sharp.

I can’t worry about your suicidal tendencies or the fact your life is ending. Hoops and cartwheels and floggers mean nothing to me. Well maybe floggers. But. Give me a second in a life as a six year-old girl with but a doll to care for. Because I’m still small, still balling about bearings, still agitated from my trip through the birth canal (yes, I’m admitting I took that flight). I exist. Okay. But I have no energy for anything else tonight.

Let’s finish this act with a picture of a beagle in the thick of spring. Lolly-gagging, tongue flapping in the air, butterflies landing on his bottom. His high-pitched bark far from annoying, soothes. The sun feels excessively warm, yet no one perspires and in its glow you can see dandelion sperm floating on the breeze. But you don’t feel the urge to sneeze so inhale the grassy waft and make out groovy. Pretend you’re a hippie for a time, before you miss the chance. Fuck war and war-makers. Nothing can touch us the day before we die.