“The Monster was the best friend I ever had.” Boris Karloff
“And I’ll use you as a warning sign, that if you talk enough sense, then you’ll lose your mind.” Amber Run
“My mother is a fish.” William Faulkner
“I could either burn, or cut off my pride and buy some time. A head full of lies is the weight tied to my waist.” River of Deceit, Alice in Chains
Hmm, when I think about where I am, I think about where I’ve been. Somewhere in the beginning I turned a corner that led me to the middle. And on the walls that enclosed me in this labrynthian tangle of life, were words. Not mine. But they all shaped me, transformed me. Made me think I was horrible, until the next wall explained that what was disfigured was only a metamorphosis. And somewhere hidden between the lines of imagery I began to see, bright colorful worlds where I could hide. I took my time upon this ward and stayed awhile. My vision narrowed to only words and phrases. The text took turns luring me in different directions and the worlds began to change. Some had romance, some were full of distant galaxies and cousins of the universe. Some had monsters who were heroes and others had gods of might and gods of weakness. I lost myself inside the walls, I stayed and thought I was alive.
I was content to wallow in this place of illusion. To live a thousand lifetimes, to love a thousand different men, to be the heroine. Anything and anywhere than in the misery of real life. My childhood was not a happy one. It wasn’t terrible. I was a sad child, and when I found words and stories and lyrics and rhymes and absurdities and things that made sense and emotions I could feel without any real connection, I was free from every hurt and pain and neglect.
So, as I grew and matured, I found myself returning and staying inside my rooms of literate delight. I never imagined there was anything more than where I was inside the memoirs of fiction.
And still I hide and rummage inside. I’m the monster inside the child who grew to be the hero to her own story. I’m the love I always imagined would someday be kind to me. I’m the passion of survival.
I’m every constant fear I tried to outrun. I’m the girl who traced the letters that beckoned and seduced a young mind. I’m the scrambled thoughts of the mad man who carries the knife that shines bright in the moonlight. I’m the calm before the storm.
I’m anything I want to be. I’ve learned there are enough words to go around, and around and around. A fever in the mind and an itch in the palm, a second later and I’d forget what I meant to say, and I can be the next great thing.
So, thank you to all the great authors and poets and songwriters and dreamers and screamers. Your words have burned themselves to me. Wrapped me up in cold and laid me in a bed of roses. goodnight.