An Artists’ Existence
I wonder if everyone is born lonely. It would make sense, all things considered. How else does the saying go if not, you enter this world alone, and you leave it just the same? But, I wonder if everyone else feels this ache, this numbness in regard to human companionship, or the lack thereof.
Perhaps the aches evolve, not from physical loneliness, but from mental and emotional isolation. Perhaps, we are not born lonely, but we develop it like breasts or a bad habit. It is when we are aware enough that we are not, cannot be understood, that the bitterness nestles in and creates that chasm of emotion that is to be lonely.
Maybe it is only a select few that this ails. If I were a betting woman, I would wager that any artistic being is wrecked by this common occurrence, attributed to their uniqueness. The very thing that frees them from the binds of this plane, cages them into a hellish scape that can be identified by the word alone.
Two Ghouls Meet in a Cemetery
May's mother had died several weeks ago, however, May continued to see her at every turn. From the farmer's market to the little bookshop around the corner, May saw her mother. She had spoken to a therapist regarding the matter, but he carefully explained to her that seeing a lost loved one was a common occurrence during the grief process. But it kept happening!
May finally decided to follow this doppelganger. She was surprised to see what seemed to be her mother visiting her own grave. To her horror, the woman began to dig. May hunched over in secret, spying on the odd occurrence. When the dirt settled, May inched her way to the open casket, only to see a woman with her mother's face tear off flesh from her mother's rotting corpse.
Startled, the imposter jumped out of the grave and bite May's arm in an attempt to distract her as it fled. May dropped to the ground in extreme pain before smelling the most divinely appetizing stench she had ever come into contact with. The smell brought her to the edge of her mother's grave, and as she looked down, her mouth watered.
May awoke from her bed, writing off the whole experience as a dark dream; her psyche attempting to heal itself from the trauma of loss. She stumbled her way to the bathroom, eyes barely open. She did her usual routine, about to brush her teeth when she caught a whiff of an awful, pickled smell. She glanced in the mirror to check her teeth only to find her mother's face staring back at her in terror.
Personally, I am from a place where heat is guaranteed, and bacon grease is a precious commodity. A place that is portrayed through the media as a one-stoplight town where hicks marry cousins and can't spell. The ignorance that inherently follows my heritage slithers into my voice and holds fast, much like the roots of our crop stationed deep into the ground, decidedly stationary. If I were to allow this nuisance to continue twisting its vines around my vocal cords, I would be reduced to the mere sound of my voice in comparison to which words were actually being projected from it. It is through intense effort and incessant practice that I have scythed away root after root, to create the perfect 'phone voice.' One devoid of an accent, think MidAtlantic sounding. One that would be listened to for content and not condemned.
Why is everyone so concerned about the future? There are so many more immediate things to fear, recognize-or perhaps revel in.
I find myself more often than not, focusing on the former.
Is the chicken for dinner undercooked?
Is this pain in my neck a strained muscle?
Is it safe to shower, or will I slip?
Is this ladder wobbling beneath me?
Is that thunder getting louder; lightning getting closer?
Is that car moving faster, ignoring the yield sign?
Is my left arm going numb?
Why is everyone so concerned about the future, when we are never guaranteed one, to begin with?