Most days

Some days the world is cold and gray. I find myself repeating the same tepid sentences over and over again until I swear the world is being drowned by my silent screaming.

Some days are like a Crayola box, half a stick of Burnt Sinew crammed next to Violet and Red Orange. Everything swims by in technicolor and if you squint the blues become orange and the reds green.

People look into this fishbowl I'm living inside, and they see the grays and the colors all floating around together. The lines between them are fluid and things seem zany and fresh. Not true. The world is either too harsh or too dim, no balance to be found, no compromise to be made.

My existence is a contradiction. In one life I have someone, a careful cardboard cutout of just what they should be. Comfort, but nothing more. I suppose I expected more then primary colors, more then cardboard. In the other life I have no one but myself. But this is to be expected, this is what I am used to. It's more dramatic in it's own way, more perfectly tragic. One way I have colorful comfort, the other beautiful tragic solitude.

And then some days I think I see a glimmer of a third world. A place with GOLD and LIGHTNING and PIZAZZ. It's such a beautiful shimmering mirage, a gossamer dream that I can only just see out of the corner of my eye.

And I'm sorry, so sorry, but I know not so deep down that if I don't run to that place, find out if it's fools gold or real, I'll never really be happy. Because you see, to be comfortable-that is my greatest fear.

It's tragedy or a dream life for me I'm afraid.