Dreams
October Twentieth, Twenty-Ten
It’s the story of my life - remembering the moments that were fadded snapshots, slow-montion blurs, with sound of friends laughter. The kinds were colors are dim, yet light is abundent. The seconds when you forget what crime you were contemplating, what movie you were rating. My mind is filled with thousands of those, poppin up in-between the Insanity, the Trains. Like a rabbit coming out of a hole in the filed, in-between a star of five train-tracks converging. Looping thru the curls in my hair, the rings on my finger, the necklaces around my neck, waiting or the moment the catch, and I panic, ending up in a tragic death of Jewlery.
It’s a wall and a Hard Place. The wall is home, solid, demanding, taking a mile when you gave a fucking step. Home, which is, in reality, not a home at all, more-rather, a place one goes back to, slaming the door, and hiding in one’s room all night, Waiting. Waiting for the tears which you know will never come because you’re beyond that point. The Hard Place is living with a friend, constanly in fear of someone dumping you back at the place you called Home. Or, more likely, living on the streets till someone relizes you’re fifteen, and should be in school.
What’s in a name, you ask? A lot, when it’s not the one you’r mother gave you. My name is like that. My mother, by birth, named me something I was for a while, but am not any more. When my person changed, so did my name. Exept, at Home, I am still that old thing, that worn out doll, that kid who lives in the apartment with a mother who’s always at work, and the lights never get turned on cause they can’t pay the bill. But I don’t. My house, the lights are often left on all day. There are kids constanly streaming in and out, like an ant mound. My mother sits at her desk in the front part of the house, writing essays and forgeting she has four kids she needs to make dinned for, and a husband, if he decides to come home in time. But the person who deals with this from 4 in the afternoon till 6 the next morning is not the person I am. That person is who my mother named me to be.
It’s a wall and a Hard Place. The wall is home, solid, demanding, taking a mile when you gave a fucking step. Home, which is, in reality, not a home at all, more-rather, a place one goes back to, slaming the door, and hiding in one’s room all night, Waiting. Waiting for the tears which you know will never come because you’re beyond that point. The Hard Place is living with a friend, constanly in fear of someone dumping you back at the place you called Home. Or, more likely, living on the streets till someone relizes you’re fifteen, and should be in school.
What’s in a name, you ask? A lot, when it’s not the one you’r mother gave you. My name is like that. My mother, by birth, named me something I was for a while, but am not any more. When my person changed, so did my name. Exept, at Home, I am still that old thing, that worn out doll, that kid who lives in the apartment with a mother who’s always at work, and the lights never get turned on cause they can’t pay the bill. But I don’t. My house, the lights are often left on all day. There are kids constanly streaming in and out, like an ant mound. My mother sits at her desk in the front part of the house, writing essays and forgeting she has four kids she needs to make dinned for, and a husband, if he decides to come home in time. But the person who deals with this from 4 in the afternoon till 6 the next morning is not the person I am. That person is who my mother named me to be.