Polychotomy

Things are tough. Things keep breaking and money is tight. I’m smiling, maniacally, hoping to induce happiness in my body through artificial means. I’ve stopped opening my mail. I’ve let the fear in.

Things are great. He’s here, his stuff is everywhere. He’s situated and it’s like he was always here. Always with me. He is my safety, my saviour. I’ve let the love in.

I look forward into my future and I do not see hope. I look into my past and wonder how it all turned out like this. I throw down my gauntlet to this thing called life but wonder if I’m really up for a fight. I am charged but I feel flat. I am coiled in a starting block with nowhere to go. No sprint, no marathon. Just stumbling. Perhaps like hurdles. Like a short person, trying to run the hurdles. I wonder if I should just go under, instead. The hurdles, I mean. It would be better than trying to jump over them.

I keep being told not to worry. I keep being told that I am good at what I do. I am unable to follow the instruction or believe the compliment. I keep wondering how to turn these skills, the inability to follow or believe, in which I have some practice, into some marketable and profitable trade. I come up against a wall. No inspired thought here. No, just that dull humming. And the strains of Elmo’s song.

I look forward into my future and I see hope. I look into my past and am grateful for the trouble. There is love here, perfect in its imperfections. I am finally being treated kindly and that is a wonderment to me. I am spoiled, cared for and I do not have to fight. I have put my gloves down. And I do not have to stumble alone. I am guided, sometimes carried. The electricity hums, the laughter forever ready to spring from my belly. I am amazed life could ever be like this. Even for a short person.

I sing songs still, and drape myself in yards of words and emotions, woven by more skilful hands than mine. I escape the day by appropriating another’s. Their imagination is enough for me. My head is too stuffed with worry for any flights of fancy. Let the dreamers dream for me. I give them full permission to. And I dance. To the strains of Elmo’s song.

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