I'm lost. I'm losing them. I've given each breath that I struggle to take to them, towards making them better, towards making things better for them. But they always fall in the end. The always need something I can't give them and something they won't seek for themselves.
The pain in my back might be from physical injury. However, I choose to believe that the increased pain is actually from the weight baring down on me. I've never had good posture. I imagine it's only about to get worse.
I think I may only have around two minutes of air left.
From me, they might have a few more years, some of them decades but I have ultimately failed them. I can't give them all the things they deserve, I can't give them the guarantee of life. I have given them my own breath and that is all I can afford them. It is always down to my own lacking, my own inability to do so many things. I gave my all. It wasn't enough.
Few things have consumed me more than the obsession I've had to know more about Beth Hurley. It is hard to say why she interested me so much in the first place. She's beautiful, undoubtedly so; but so are dozens of other girls I see on a daily basis. In fact, now that I think about it, it certainly wasn't her beauty alone - it was something else. It was her simplicity, I think. It was the matter-of-factly manner in which every word that came out of her mouth was spoken. It was the way her eyes teased me, revealing just enough to rouse my curiosity, never enough to fully satisfy it. It was as though there were unspoken thoughts and abandoned feelings inside of her, both of which added many more dimensions to her beauty, and it was upon my job to find those out and make her even more beautiful than she already was.
Marge is in her hammock sipping tea, slowly drifting into sleep. Fe'tid the spider is slowly descending to the street. G-pa the Raccoon is shuffling through the alley, sniffing for some meat. He’s been shot with pellets, clipped by a Chevy Malibu, and struck by lightning, so don’t even begin to bitch and complain about the toils of your daily burden. Marge is sound asleep now, unaware of the buzzing bees around the garden post. She is lightly snoring, dreaming about being on a rowboat in the middle of the ocean. She has no paddles and is worried about how she is going to get her mortgage paid if nobody finds her. In her dream she has no imperfections. Her skin is silky smooth, like corporate fabric. She awakens to the sound of children laughing.
Walking through the park with criminals in our midst. Strolling along the path with our memories still intact. I am a post-liberal scholar, trying on different thoughts. There are liars in my midst. I have all this knowledge but with nothing to dump it on. My power-tools are well designed but I have nothing to contort. My heart is broke. There are lovers in my midst. I rest my legs on a bench. My shoulders are tired from building walls. I’m looking for a power-outlet but all I find are covered receptacles. There are no electricians in my midst. There are people passing to and fro. I wave at a friendly dog. My legs feel better so I resume my walk. I merge into the pathway traffic and disappear among the crowds. I am somewhere in my midst.
I stutter. Not bad, but just enough for people to notice and not say anything, simply to avoid embarrassing me. I have always known this about myself, but as I started getting older, I realized that a teenage girl with a stutter isn't the absolute most attractive thing in the world. With time, I began staying quiet in busy conversations and crowded rooms. I learned to not speak unless I was with someone who would not mind the slight stutter in my voice when I spoke. It wasn't until I was sitting with him in a small out-of-the-way diner that I realized he was aware of this imperfection of mine. He mentioned it casually, and went on about the conversation like we were discussing the weather. My face changed to that shade of red that I always get when nervous, and he calmly took my hand. He was the first person to bring this up and the first person who knew exactly what to say. He didn't laugh at me like most people usually do. Instead, he said that it was something that he liked about me and something that he had told his mom about me early on. He welcomed this imperfection and saw it as worth keeping. This is why I am thinking that he might just be the person with a few slight imperfections worth keeping in my life.