Decapitated Longing and the Sense of Exposed Exteriors

I took a walk in the rain today. It never rains in Southern California, but today I was blessed with the minerals from above.

I spent the early morning gazing at the photo of my mother. She looks the same but older. The sparkle in her eyes isn’t from my endurance. It’s just who she is on a good day. On a great day — there are fairies making their beds in her vision when she looks at the ones she adores. The stars in the sky can’t compete and I can’t remember when I felt so helplessly disconnected from the light that splatters into the day.

I am thoroughly unhinged by the days as they scrap by and leave dust marks for me to clean up. I don’t deserve this labor but I do it with the vigor of a child who knows what comes next.

I am blessed. I look the same but feel like the outcast from a planet that used to be the haven for seekers but now rests in the bosom of a satellite that drifted without warning into the wedge of bemused confusion.

I long for the summer days that allowed my used-to-be black coif with wispy edges to speak for me — as I settled my restless skirt into a silence that breathes the acceptance of a welcomed hand in hand.

I long to hear the songs that sift through the air just when I need to feel young and able but, with withdrawals as my knees beckon to the years without letting me fall into the hole of deep despair.

I long to understand the graph that is now almost complete but holds no formula that solves the present sense of an exterior exposed for all to see.

You see it. You see me in the wholeness of my plight. Your whispers are key to the reasons why some of us are made to pay while others watch their investment fluctuate to the adherence of the unlucky.

Decapitated longings can never survive the hardship of want as invisible shepherds lead the flock to locked up staples — that provide enough light to envision what you’ve missed and what you probably won’t gain as long as you remain chained to the stuffed prison of welting contentment.

Oh! To be the secretary with the magic pen who writes and writes until those who follow scramble to undiluted the words that can’t be transferred to the betrayal of the felt pen.

Water can’t wash away the hide of disbelief — at least not completely.

I may never accept this present day scalding from the heat of chains that embalmed the memories that make the stark nights and bright mornings incorrigible to my grasp.

But without a head — the beams of light that leave me vulnerable to the dismays of onlookers feels normal — and I am truly alive for when I will be truly living.

Another day isn’t too far off and neither is the will to receive or reject.