Thursday, September 27, 2012


She's not traditionally affectionate.

We don't hold hands, we don't cuddle in public, not really.  I touch her, here and there, because it's impossible for me not to.  I squeeze her knee, brush her thigh, gently grasp for her little fingers as we walk side by side...Occasionally I allow myself the privilege of grasping little bits of her blond hair, lifting them lazily, and watching them cascade down again, onto her small, round shoulders.

Her yellow aura wafting over me like perfume and sending me into fits of awkward giggles.  I love her.  Being near her makes me silly and speechless.  Fumbling for words like an ignorant, grinning fool.  And I love her.

Kissing her is a rare privilege.  Her soft little mouth against mine, and I am suddenly overcome with gluttony, wanting to breathe her completely into me, and hide her there forever.  Those delicate, rosy cheeks...

Saying goodbye in front of my house, I can never treat her with the affection I'm always tempted to display.  To scoop her up.  To savor her kisses.  To squeeze her in my arms in an attempt to meld her to me forever...and I can't.  Neighbors.  Children.  Passers by.

And so, I settle instead, for that blissful moment, when we embrace, and she gathers my face and hair in her hands, to plant a long, sweet kiss against my cheek.  I drink in the moment like sweet wine, savoring every second, every scent of her hair, the softness of her face against my desperate flesh.  I want to sink against her, and submit to every heaving desire...

And I can't.  I don't.  I settle, instead, for her lingering kiss against my cheek, and the scent of her, clung to my clothes.

Wednesday, September 19, 2012

My name is Krystal, and I am a saltine.

Fun things, that probably border on psychosis;  

Every so often, I am fortunate enough to go thru a phase (obviously related to being mentally ill) in which I become absolutely convinced that everyone I know is upset with me in some form.  

Like right now.  If you are reading this, yes, you, I have convinced myself that you are angry with me.  And it's freaking me out.  

I know it's probably not true.  There is a very rational part of my brain, albeit a small one, that maintains an inkling of sanity during all of my weird "episodes," and works to quiet the raging nonsense that happens in every other part of my brain.  

"Knock it off, will ya?  It's arrogant to assume that you have so much power over everyone's thoughts, that you feel you have the right to assume they're *all* upset with you.  And if they were, don't you think they'd just tell you?  Get your head out of your ass, and start functioning like a normal adult."  

Meanwhile, in Crazy Town...

"Did you hear what he said to you?  There was a tone.  A very distinct tone, that said 'fuck, you're annoying.  Leave me alone.'  He hates you.  Which means his wife probably hates you, too.  And their kids.  Come to think of it, so do your kids.  And probably your husband.  And while we're on a roll, all of your friends hate you, too.  Good god, how could anyone possibly alienate people with the speed and efficiency that you do?  And while we're on the subject, I hate you, too..."  

I'm not schizophrenic.  At least, I'm not diagnosed as such.  And I feel like I have had enough therapy and medical intervention in my 34 years, that something like that would have been exposed long before now.  

But, fuck.  Does everyone feel this way, or am I just a few crackers short of...well...something with crackers.  Or am I just plain fucking crackers?  
Goddammit.  I don't even like crackers.

Stupid brain.    

Monday, September 17, 2012

...nothing holds me.

My soul is impatient with itself, as with a bothersome child; its restlessness keeps growing and is forever the same. Everything interests me, but nothing holds me.

~ Fernando Pessoa

Saturday, September 1, 2012

Soul sickness

I am tired.  Thoughts lately are a mess of pictures and noises, occasionally coming together to form something tangible, and mostly darting about like little frightened fish, in the sea of my consciousness.
My body aches.  It feels less like a body now, and more like an over-sized suit, from which I cannot escape.
I want to hide, and all the while feel ever further compelled to seek out the companionship of people who don't yet feel this way, wondering, will they rub off on me, or will I rub off on them?
It feels as if I'm starting to forget.  And to remember...