I really don’t know what people want, or what I want for that matter. Stuck in the broken social scene teenage traumedy. I figure no one really knows what others want, so many divorces, broken homes, political strife and culture wars. I feel autistic sometimes, I reflect on my past and see a slowly developing picture of a child riddled with violent and surging emotions and distrust, so much confusion, so many brain lapses. I want a particular reaction and certain sentences from people that I never get. My mind is aloof, somewhere else, playing gin rummy with the liver or something. A myriad of options and variables float along in my head with each interaction, I question all arrays, all meanings of their words and gestures and I fall flat onto the pavement Wile E. style. What do they mean? Is it being nice? mockery? sarcasm? I have an answer that seems logical at first, then I deliberate and debate myself to find some hidden meaning, some trinket of folly on my part. Better or worse, the pendulum swings both ways, I am overly positive and overtly negative. Rainbows and dust clouds ruminate around me waiting to lash out or onto someone; a Thing for my delicatessen routine. Am I Hannibal or a playful imp jollying around tossing laurels and hollies around the menagerie? Garden gnome knows no home.
The jovial party man inhabits me, scurries out to frolic and play with the mortals before the scouring grumble grump comes to judge and hate out of self-conscious contempt. Belushi bacchanalia? Hipster syndrome? Dionysian harpy? What do I entail? My imaginings and foldings reveal a paper tiger with the soul of a crane; low to the ground, high to the sky. The guiding line, light, principle, what to follow. I’m stepping out tripping over my feet in a cobblestoned avenue full of cold comforts. The sweet smells of baking bread and wooden shop signs in the sepia toned world inside the mind. Quaint hobbles and odds and bobbles.
I escape to a dream within. Better than this dualistic fight for supremacy. Alpha and beta raising knuckles for the fisticuffs. Bawler and brawler knocking heads, cracking skulls, bashing brains. Which Eve will I be? Three faces brazenly facing the world at large.