Packing (preparinig to travel towards the likeness of my being)
Things I don’t want to take on my upcoming vacation to the woods:
-Too much baggage, the various carts and sacks of crap I’ve been dragging around all year will surely slow my pace.
-The dark circles under my eyes, the thoughts I’ve been tracing, to no good end, which only serve to darken my lower lids and curve my smile upside down.
-This insistent tightness settling into my right shoulder, direct result of fielding too many calls, cradling the receiver, multi-tasking, in search of varying means to a real goodbye.
-My broken heart, the glue to which just won’t stick long enough to hold my self to my self again, and I am left with blood on my sleeve.
-Each and every stubbed toe I’ve bandaged these last many months, since I tend to slam the little piggies every time I beat my head against a brick wall.
The brick wall – it, too, why can’t it remain in the rearview, as I pull away from the objects that are nipping at my heels, to a cabin built of sticks and a few carefully laid stones?
What if I huff, and puff and blow the whole house down, just as I am leaving, in my ultimate refusal to be the little piggy left behind squealing, and/or the one cowering and settling for a bit of rotted beef?
Why can’t I go to market, to market …
What if I not only mix my fairytale wolves and nursery rhymed swine, but I totally slip on Freud and mix my metaphors like a thick soup that might finally fill me?
What if I chase the steamy broth with liquor and a handful of polka-dots?
What if I find the place where I can finally breathe, and the world opens up and swallows me?
What if I like it down there?
What if I don’t come back, choose to live in the musty dark air, eating mushrooms and taking long, dark naps?
What if …
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