When a bird creates a nest in solitude, entwining stiff dry twigs, it is in essence creating its own special reality. That is what we do as children when we do not know how to cope. When the sun could not find the aperture to my self-imposed bubble, I created two separate worlds with the belief that if I created a parallel universe, I could push a day inside out and live in the negative. I attempted to pacify the dizziness in my blood– the discordant note I could not dislodge. And that is where a middle name like Myrica emerges– from a ten-year old all too eager to discard an identity and create another.

And then I came to the realization that there are a number of very lovely, but very lonesome people in the world. Although they walk defeated, shoulders slumped, the carved muscles of their bare backs are beautiful, the shoulder blades nestled in the hollows of their necks are beautiful, they are sheathed in skin smooth enough to drink. But underneath are their muscles flexing from the strain of life, loving themselves blue and pink. Because they have nothing to lean on. Because they twitch in their sleep from the medication they take to numb the pain. But still it doesn’t. When do we stop for a moment to let the tension recede, to stop tracing over the same paths of life, to stop orbiting the pain? How do we overcome the frictionless crawling in our attempt to grasp things?

The emotional bind to reality is eroded. Someone is playing cats cradle on the strings of my brain. Everyone is running on coffee, teetering on the edge, threatening to crash.


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