this will happen again (or, brooding as prose poem-type thing)
You think you’re over it, and it’s a normal day, and you congratulate yourself for reentering this land. You don’t believe in normal, but you’re back to a place where you can contemplate semantics, and that means something. You watch a baby bat drink formula from the tip of an eye shadow brush. Your to-do list says Christmas cards.
Tonight there will be no choreography of preparation and acceptance, of reprimanding yourself for not being a Nice Person while taking care not to pressure yourself to be a Nice Person. You’re just here for some cake. And then it hits you. When they say like a freight train, what they mean is: It’s not the train’s fault. It never saw you. Or, if it did, it couldn’t stop in time. Stopping wasn’t its job. But then the train moves on and you’re peeling yourself off the tracks, a flattened cartoon, thinking I’m so sick of this until the next train comes along.
Comments
On a cathartic note, I'm wondering if this is a good time for you to get a huge package of googly eyes to put on all of your Xmas cards.
Nothing says, "this holiday is odd" like a Hello Kitty Santa Xmas card with three googly eyes (one extra googly in the middle of the forehead) instead of the usual two black dots.
It may not fix the hurt in your heart, but googly eyes are the balm of Gilead when it comes to unthinkable situations, IMHO.
The upside is that sometimes it hits you with something amazing in addition to painful.
Love you.
TL: Here's hoping a train full of unicorns and chocolate is coming 'round the bend.