If life were an abacus, god would flip us back and forth, our heads tick-tocking away. That is why I have always envied religious people, to relinquish the great existential burden of choice to one holy entity.
My mind spins out of control, starting at the source, ratifying fears and doubts. It progresses to the room, unkempt, a small existence. Then, to the world around me, the vast amounts of information that cannot be remembered, the choices that can never be made, the misunderstanding, the fear, the broken dreams. Mobs of people, imperfectly dictating what we call reality, creating their own visions, their own stories. Our whole lives are a collective fiction. I see these people, and crumble. It progresses to the universe, the spinning globe shooting through space, the vast, black freezer, the nuclear armageddon of the sun. How in death’s light, we dance.
I am jealous of faith.
There is a closing of this emotion, exhaustion takes over. I once said, in the morning I was birthed in rejuviant placenta. The cold sweat of the night laying on my skin, with my head back to where it was supposed to be. In the mornings, waking unharmed, I felt so lucky to be alive.
Slowly going crazy. In 10 years I will be too broken to love, one of those people who get locked up in asylums or ignored because their eccentricities turned out to be a long-term, developing, mental illness.
I wish I were someone different sometimes. Someone without vision, without pride or desire, content to serve a simple existence until my grandchildren bury me, an imaginary life.
But sometimes, I get to eat breakfast next a stranger who is crazier than I, and that makes me feel alright.
