Dormant? Constipated? Suppressed? Go Figure.

Vagueness is all there is in this restoration. Or is it restoration in the first place? No it is not. It is a safe place. Sort've. No, it is a place that is ignorant to responsibilty. And purity, perhaps. Who can say? Shall I go and weep over the bodies of my murdered hopes? Shall I stay and smile at a ghost or see myself smile back at me to somehow find a semblance of happiness? I find that there are other things. Other things I can worry about, i used to worry about, worry in a good way...excitement. no. interest. no. peace. yes. There I will wallow til the phone rings...a sound now strange to me. I wear a yellow tank with a print of an old hero that used to rescue me at night. Whose pleasure was to hear every word that came out of my mouth. treasured it like green food to the dinosaurs that sing "only the feeling of infinite love". Our symbol still looms at my mirror. black and red against silver. The walls of my room carry but one creation of this hero's hand. exhausted as it hangs there in heat, cold, and dust. On top of my table and under the glass is a map towards a world imagined by one who knew not of my existence. Who knew not that his map would be given as a gift to me. Pictures, lots of them, wrought by thin soft hands that used to caress my scarred face. unfortunately, I cannot recall the wetness of its sweat anymore nor the soft touch of spirit it produced. there is a young turtle in my sand bowl, i used to bring everywhere with me...it swims no more. sings no more. not even of crowbars. Now, it carries ash from incense i burn every night to invoke my spirit, my spirit. I want to break free somehow... not from the hero...but from the reins of my body, the chains of my tongue, the yoke on my shoulders. take laxatives perhaps...who knows... peace and love.