The Teacup Ride

Sometimes you wake up feeling just doodlebug crazy. But if you don’t center yourself no one else will. I told someone I once respected that I didn’t know where I was going to be five years from now, but I knew that I would be there. That’s the only certainty of sorts that I can commit to. That all said, I felt off today…and then I wrote this thing, and I feel better. I wonder if everyone goes to therapy kicking and screaming as I do. I’m always glad I go to my notebook therapy sessions though. They are work all of their own as I play therapist and patient all at once, but they function invaluable as I read over them now, a week from now, etc.

From the notebook…

The Teacup Ride (5/22/14)

With a whimper, with a battle cry, I throw myself into the foray again. The person I knew has been transmuted into something of a much better hue; easier on the eyes. The rapscallion, chain-smoking and free-wheeling from any push pins you may advertise, now exists as a barely moving,  ancient entity, holding the hand of the next generation and steering himself amongst empty vessals and towards an exit that is obscurred by only thin steam, conjured in the past tense. 

One armed goddess. She gave the others away or lost them while flailing to catch herself against a fall that wasn’t really all too far in recollection. She’s covered in sugared liquid that’s air drying, mixing with her own uncoagulated life syrup that has somehow been loosed, flowing freely in her ignorance as she attends to more pressing needs. 

It’s too cold for you here in the hollow depression made from hours of alternating light and day. Everyone knows that sunrises exist, an event happening quite naturally and scheduled indefiitely, but how many lifts of the orb you cannot view unsheilded do you actually see? Tangled in a fistfight with a time clock, slapping palms against high-rise low-elevation walls of a laboratory rat’s maze to nowhere, you don’t even see your life preserver, floating, flaring above as you turn below and spin until dizy drunk and out of breath in a teecup that is polished and secondhand superglued. You throw your hands up and shout in elation/terror declarations of love to every blurred face you careen past. They surface again, less distinct, on every revolution you make. 


-Anna R. Kotopple


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