Batty Fruitcakes

I like boxes. closed. neat. placed against a wall, not free standing.

everything has to be connected to something else. in lines. and systematic patterns.

neuroses, i have a bunch of.

Just like my boxes, i need my mind to be working in a closed form. my room has to be a closed circuit, working and not splitting somewhere, waiting to be fixed. it's not about the distraction. it's not about outside noise at all. i work fine with all the bustle and giggling wafting into my space. i just need my walls to flow, one into the next, without having to frog jump over some annoying open doorway.

And that is what you call my tantrum. fine, it is. it is my tantrum and it is an integral part of my theatrics. it really does not bite me that you have an issue with it so much as when you ask me to change it, to stop it and to make it fit your definition of 'not tantrum, not pampered'. it cannot just happen that my mind will gloss over the break in the block of space that i am perfectly adjusted to.

It's like a breach in the walls of a fortress that needs to be watched, and guarded and surveyed at every second moment. and if you think that there's something fishy with what i'm up to in here, then sit with me. come be a part of my box. but i must warn you that it will still be closed and being closed is not guarding me from the outside looking in. it is not even guarding me from inside looking out. it is just there so that the continuity of my space is unharmed.

*whispering audience*

'Loopy fruitcake, this one. completely batty.'

Yes, i hear you.

Yes, i am. 

Technicolour Impossible Dream

            TV trauma.

            Who really cares about the real world?

            I'd rather worry about people whose perfection lies in the fact that they were created to be the perfect versions of their flaws. I'd rather watch a coloured satire on a family far away than have to wait to see the black and white richness of my own. Why? Because waiting is uncertainty and because there's too much at risk without a script.

           

            I'd rather know the end vaguely than have to see the reality of innocence staring at me. Waking up knowing nothing and going to bed with a smaller portion of it. Comfort comes to me in small doses when you're happy, when there's nothing hurting your heart or nothing makes you cry. It's a mercy when I don't have to see you battling your age or when you're not disappointed with what you have.

 

            You're my unbending reality. You make it ok. Sparring and rebellion holds more risk for you than for me. But somehow I cannot stop thinking you're unbreakable, invincible and the one force I need to prove to that I know. And it really doesn't matter much so long as you believe in me at some point.

 

            You sniff out the moments that are crowding around my windpipe and there's no way my happiness could soar by your radars.

            You're precious. You're too precious.

            But you cannot make me not want my own version of the technicolour impossible dream.