Tell Your Own Tale

A sane mind can be pushed to insanity.

Especially when the impossible beating of a murdered heart begins to twist the mind apart.

An insane mind rarely rehabilitates. That's all there.

Edgar Allen Poe linguistically digs raw emotion under the planks trembling feet. And, now, the consistent thumping in his throat...consumes his ears. Once, cool, calm, collected, and proud. Now a sullen, wide-eyed paranoia powdered his damp face. With every thump, his accomplishment became disfigured defeat.

It has been Two hundred years since.

Listen.

Karma was timely spun into gold, instinctual desperation of straw fearing a failing of dreams. Rumpelstiltskin's loneliness was sinfully spun to gold. The greed fueled promise of a rising queen, laid her to sleep for a century under fools gold. Worn like the Emperor's new clothes, bowing down with submissive promise, we praise what we cannot see. Faithfully.

Eventually, you are faced with a door that only faith can knock on. No hands needed here, infinite space expands, and finally!, Dave is here, and he takes your hand.

Faith didn't do a ton of knocking in those years. I did not have a door to my bedroom growing up. Ironically, this did not leave me exposed; it was almost too private.

My routine solitude didn't need a bedroom door. I was the only one home.

I didn't complain. I was busy.

I learned quickly the sting of a hand that built humility. As I grew, the humiliation settled like an eddy, and only the anger and trauma flowed to unfuckingfathomnamobile stage 5 rapids. Love paddled like a viking with chest rising and lightning striking. That river overwhelmed despair, and by the time I begun to walk to my elementary school bus (you know the walk, yes, there is hills both ways); I knew how to take care of myself, maintain a routine, cook, build a fire, and, prove to my mom once again, she is right. No woman needs a man. The strength and solidarity of my days were built into my character's attire, but I only knew then to have my mom sold that control had once again proven her feet could retire from the long day.

I grew fierce calluses on my NO man hands. I grew fierce love and longing for my mother, I still love her like no other. And.

I grew.... My curiosity did too...

Jump forward about 30 years. Holy shit, if I haven't just discovered; the Lorax left seeds in his greed, that provide more shade than the branches of the freedom we honor. Nature versus nurture turns colors in its leaves. Fifty freaking uncovered shades of lips-sealed secrets shade the sun. Trauma oozed generationally into a toe-walking, nose-rising, awkward silence. Come, sit down, your family tree struggles to pair pride with shame, as your roots bury their feet.

And the tree was happy...Bullshit. No. Way.

(...this story has roots and tales, waterfalls and fails...much continuation to be done...

And, the tree is not yours. Or anyone's.

I am happy. I am just beginning. I hear my telling of my heart.