She Speaks

I was not made to live in a fluorescent lighted box, walking in and out of an ice cube day after day, carrying cardboard boxes full of frozen baked goods. But the nice thing about living so long in that box was the eight hours a day I knew exactly what was expected of me, and I could feel useful. Outside of that box, I am not sure where I am wanted, where I want to go, and which wants are better left untouched. To do nothing may be better than to fail.

It is not who you are, but what you do that matters. I am so much, and reasonably good. I do so little, and so cruelly or needfully. To suppress the me that needs, I must oppress those who need me. Otherwise there will be no energy left to take care of myself. I have to take care of myself. I have to take care of myself, so that I can keep being so much, and so reasonably good, while at the same time doing so little.

How ugly. How dull and ugly I feel. How dull and ugly I feel because nobody will take care of me. How urgent and burning my need to not be taken care of, to take care of myself. I cannot take care of anyone else, but so far I have tried to force everybody to stop taking care of me. But, my self is a double agent, with my left hand reaching out and screaming to be grabbed, and my right hand carefully severing all the lines keeping me tethered to safety. Safety. So safe and sound and warm. Safety. Safety is an empty box, containing only me. Safety is an empty box I can feel useful in. Safety can only sustain a dangerous substance for so long. My curiosity. My rage. My need. My hope. My lack of faith. Only so long.

So ordinary to be so sad. So ordinary. So?