Just a Bite

         Consciously, I do not believe in superstitions. In fact, I condemn them. They are a waste of thought, a creator of maladaptive habits, an unnecessary stressor. But mostly, they aren’t real. They aren’t real.

They are not real.

         I preach these ideas constantly, my adolescent nose turned up at the frivolous belief system. What a waste! Yet, I often find myself glancing at a bed of clovers, caught in that dream-like trance that softens and blurs the borders of my vision. I suppose my inner child can be found in these momentary lapses in consciousness. The small child who smiles even at the shadows. It’s sad. There are times with I fight with this inner child. I fight it for sophistication amongst other trivial things, but mostly, I fight because the innocence it brings has no place in the real world. This innocence, I vowed, would not distract me from seeing the world as it was. I learned to think that innocence would make me weak, a victim. I’ve attained a new logical disposition that strays away from my imaginative childhood.

I often wonder if this is a mistake.

         Is it better to see the world through the eyes of a child? To view everything, old or new, with wonder? Or does this innocence and trust betray common sense and allow for damage to be bestowed onto the child?

         I have a certain fault. I am obsessed with the past. I can’t let it go. My introverted mind is no better than an old tape that skips and plays again and again. I am stuck. I am not a child, nor do I wish to be. I am not an adult, and that is not a favorable title either. I am too young to ponder the importance of my life on this earth, yet I do. I am too old to pretend and whisper to talking trees, but I do.



         Why?



         The answer eludes me, and I feel that I am so full of questions and troubles I’ll pop. Blow into a thousand little pieces. But you know, when I blow up, I hope to make an impact. Like a crater on the earth, or another canyon. For a burst of air to expel throughout my town and whip through everyone’s hair. I want to be

REMEMBERED.

         Though these petulant desires are not physically possible. I’m almost ashamed for thinking them. I’m left with these pent up questions and thoughts. I often wish I could sing, and sing well, so that I may banish these emotions and everyone would hear me. Screaming would work too, if I had enough humility to scream in front of a crowd.



         Would you like to know the purpose of this piece? I take an apologetic tone now when I tell you it’s not for you. It’s to make me feel better. But I can’t do it by myself. I need you. I need to know someone hears my words. I need to know someone hears the feels that incite my obsessive need to write.

Can you feel it?

         This is what I do. I’m crazy. I talk to trees, and sometimes, they talk back. I doodle flowers with purple ink and watch them spread their inky roots and grow taller than the sky. I write and write and write until somewhere I make my point. But usually, I don’t. Too verbose, not concise. Too confusing, not precise.



         I can’t write for you. If you ask, you will get buffer, fodder, nothing more substantial than cotton candy, though not nearly as pleasurable.



         No, this is for me. For my anxiety to be released. If I was a true writer, I could make you feel it, too.



         This is why I need you. So you can feel what I feel. Empathy is one thing, but for me to put you through a physical change is remarkable. If I whispered this close to your ear, my breath a straight shot into your earlobe,

Could you feel it?

         Writing lacks the physicality usually utilized to expel raw emotions. When you are mad, you punch something. When you are sad, you cry until the insides of your throat rub raw. When you are happy, you jump up and down.



         Listen. I am too weak to punch, too proud to cry, and I am not fond of looking like a jolly fool.

But you aren’t.

         If you feel what I feel, how would you deal? Punching, crying, or jumping? Maybe. Either way, if I can give you my energy, I won’t have it anymore. It will be your burden.



         I don’t mean that in a bad way. Perhaps burden isn’t the right word. Experience may fare better. Yes. You will have my experience.



         Pardon me if I have offended you. I am not right in the head.



         However, there is a way to bring physicality into writing. Simply writing. Physically. You know, I originally wrote this on paper. I carved the words into the paper like a coroner carves his knife into a body; careful, but hard enough to break the skin.



         Is this displacement? Taking my anger out on an innocent sheet of paper? Yes. It is. But that doesn’t mean it’s wrong. Better my paper than my brother.

Well, sometimes.

But just so you know, I would never take out my anger on you.

I’d just pass it on.

         I am not a good writer. I slay my pages, spewing ink and paper guts all across my room. I bite my fist and pound my desk. I am mean. Dispicable. I can’t even spell correctly.



         If I were a good writer, you’d pound your desk, too. You’d be so angry that you’d bite your fist and throw my paper in the trash.



         And yet you are still reading.



         How sad for me.



         My point is, there isn’t one. I am not an actual writer. Just a patient in disguise. Well, a future patient. My disorder hasn’t been discovered yet.



         Since I’m a terrible writer, you’ll be safe to read my work. Because if I was a good writer, I might have passed my maniacal disposition onto you. In fact, it might be slithering its wormy tail into your brain right now, burrowing through the fleshy cracks. And I wonder,

Can you feel it?