Drafting Life

To my knowledge we become sadists somewhere between being old children and teenagers. The complex images of cartoons and the mistreats in early life along with a prenatal mind mix themselves and produce intense personalities that cut deep wounds. A mind that contemplates no boundaries, that foresees no future, that learns to feel at the same time it urges insanely to live. Juicy marmalades, sticky soda, red gooey lollipops, blank enormous eyes that suck it all in and refuse to burst. When we realize we are capable of suicide a burden is lift off. We become unconquerable, untouched, potent, invincible, with fait in a tightly closed palm. Yet we feel protected still and run with open scissors. Concave, reflecting a naïve past and projecting a diffuse future inside the stiff walls of a loud and dizzy present. Nothing can make it go away. We are prisoners of life complacent to know there’s a way out. We hung by it with pinkies. We survived it with books and friends. Eventually we go back for a while rewinding to an obscure rawness that slowly drips away between real doll houses and age. We search sunlight to blind ourselves.