Encapsulated

There was a time my emotions were turned inside out, when I’d selfishly air my dirty laundry, with an impetuous shake, for the entire world to read with just a few strokes - a litany of triumphs, a host of low notes, and cleverly disguised key players frozen in time, mid-pose, like characters in a Rembrandt. Never me, never mind, but leaving just enough clues hinting at what could be.

Wandering, machete in hand, through the capacious undergrowth of sticky vine - a jungle of unsorted, unfiltered, undiluted memories. Memories. Sweet yet at the same time bitter like a twist of lime and a dash of salt. Salvation comes in many forms. Such as shot after shot of cheap whiskey lined up in a neat little row, or the small mountain of Pabst cans chilling in a rusted tin washtub sweating in the noonday sun, or a syringe full of lethal, blissful, bittersweet junk. Salvation waiting but never appearing, eyeing the horizon, waiting and waning as wave after wave of tumultuous memories slap me across the face... and only turmoil remains. Failure to act. Failure to "see things through" as my daddy used to always say. A handsome young man, impetuous and brash, never realizing what he had until the day he awoke from life.

A dream. As phantasms… no not phantasms but headless voices, wander in and out through a revolving door. Characters in a play appearing as if on cue and then exeunt with a bright flurry or conversely, without speaking a word. I used to interact with these characters speaking in tongues like a Delphic oracle round and round together through the motions. But now I dumbly sit and cradle my arms, my emotions have now shifted outside in. And lately, only numb. Zoloft , Prozac, and Paxil cloud my thoughts like a gray curtain of dense fog.