I woke up this morning feeling different from myself, cold in spirit, maybe it was the cup of cherry vanilla ice cream I devoured late last night or the weird dream where I was in therapy consisting of acrobatics and a water bed, but I somehow feel outside of myself, like there is a sheer curtain billowing between the me of yesterday and the me of this moment, teasing me to come back but tempting me to stay off balance.
So I'm looking around my bedroom trying to attach myself to things I know are mine but at this moment feel borrowed and I wonder which me is me. I spend more time in the other me and like her better because she's predictable - this me is, um, hesitant, guarded, plotting - like at any moment she could start speaking French or pull out her eyelashes or stupidly buy an iguana.
What does it mean, Grasshopper?
I'm going with defense. The brain has taken over because it's smarter than I and knows its limitations. It likes me and wants to preserve itself as I suppose rewiring after a meltdown would not be fun.
The randomness has begun: I am not her bedspread; has that chip always been on that dresser; are the people that go to the laundramat at 6:00 a.m. are different from those who go at midnight; why do people with money wear ripped jeans and people without throw them away; what is quality control on toothpicks; why can't it snow in summer when it's warm and would melt faster; what's that banging?
Inconsequential meanderings to rest the weary mind. I'll take it.
So I'm looking around my bedroom trying to attach myself to things I know are mine but at this moment feel borrowed and I wonder which me is me. I spend more time in the other me and like her better because she's predictable - this me is, um, hesitant, guarded, plotting - like at any moment she could start speaking French or pull out her eyelashes or stupidly buy an iguana.
What does it mean, Grasshopper?
I'm going with defense. The brain has taken over because it's smarter than I and knows its limitations. It likes me and wants to preserve itself as I suppose rewiring after a meltdown would not be fun.
The randomness has begun: I am not her bedspread; has that chip always been on that dresser; are the people that go to the laundramat at 6:00 a.m. are different from those who go at midnight; why do people with money wear ripped jeans and people without throw them away; what is quality control on toothpicks; why can't it snow in summer when it's warm and would melt faster; what's that banging?
Inconsequential meanderings to rest the weary mind. I'll take it.
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