So cold my breath turned to snow and sprinkled in the footstep of a sparrow who, unwittingly, had crossed my path before the last sun had set; he wasn’t singing now, too dark too cold–and I was not too bold to venture out before a warming dawn, an icy mouth full of yawn. Slate gray it was with a border of dark pink–it rose like a broken window shade on my left: quiet, frosty, still: the night was slithering away, it’s belly nearly froze in place had she not been so sleek to slip away. She was meek, the night because she was the last one of the year. She had no fear of father sun for he was sure to return; she knew in calmness there is a strength. The yellow moon emblazoned on my right broke through the blackness of the night and hovered near my every move as I made my way. The yellow moon, so full and bright, hung like an anchor on a new day full of hope and promise of rebirth and joy. I followed the yellow moon–it was his noon—for he marked every step in my path, otherwise, I would not have known he took with him the pain of ice cold nights, and pointless, frigid fights against his will. He was pulling down all the darkness with him into his pit; and so, I knew, it was time to rest a bit and rise again without the frozen fear of pain.
Being on the verge of a near breakdown, psychological collapse or just pure insanity isn’t fun. You see things through a different pair of spectacles which are polished with fear, sharpened by adrenaline, and likely to hallucinate jackboots, persecution and mass
murder. Today, while I was outside on my break from work, had just finished talking to Doug (whose own problems turn mine to a derisory pity-world) and had just sat on a hard, wooden bench to relax, perhaps recover, from a morning of talking on the telephone with the dregs of society a young man caught my eye; he was quick in step, a bit proud it seemed, fresh and bold—he sported pasty white flesh and was wind sensitively thin with one of those Adam’s apples which scream pubescent turmoil, though he appeared too mature for such hormonal trials, he nearly skipped along like a child heading to our work entrance.
From a distance, a shadow seemed to be hanging beneath his pale, upturned and elfish nose perhaps drawn by the shadows of a murky, dank day. I did a double take, for as he slithered closer what I at first thought was a shadow beneath his nose morphed into a Hitler Moustache! What, am I dreaming? I’m seeing many confederate flags these days: one in my neighborhood is adorned with black ghosts hanging in a tree for Halloween. Nothing shocks me lately, but to see a man sporting the style of the last person, who I know for sure, slaughtered millions of people in the name of nationalism, economic growth and war nearly goose-stepping his way into work nearly took my breath away.
Is the “Hitler Moustache” becoming acceptable again? After all he didn’t copyright it. Someone tell me what YOU think!
I’ll finish this story later as there is MUCH more to it.
Having just escaped from dreams of destruction and rejection, I inserted myself into a situational self-grieving. There are plenty of things which can smother you in fear (if allowed to), constrict around your neck and tickle the inside of your ears until it becomes a torture. Thoughts rolling over and over again until they’re over cooked as a burnt chicken on a rotisserie, charred with no good meat left to eat. I’ve licked the stamp and sent the letter, the same letter, written over and over again in scrawls and scratches on heavy, linen paper. Words defined and redefined but never redirected: always boomerangs. I keep thinking I can empty the fireplace with a teaspoon.
The fire is out and the gritty edge of morning blackness feigns its death, for I know it will be back to dull the edge of the blade I use while dissecting my sorrows and persecutions. Daylight slithers in, soft gray with an odor of musty basement and rotting leaves. Now that I can see a hundred yards the world begins to collapse in; I find myself in the jaws of a monster, his hot breath comes in waves. I feel the steamy stench through the holes in my gray socks. This is tender time: when the masterpiece of dream becomes painted over by world number two whose colors seem more stark, whose contrast seems more sharp and whose frame is rigid ebony, sharp boundaries which cannot be crossed. I am awake.