Disjointed

It isn't that I don't complete the ideas. Heavens, no, it isn't that. It's that I leave them for myself...wherever I've left myself.

I feel my very medicines have become poisonous. My intuition catches what my eyes have missed, but not before my lips commit the mutiny. Secrets don't make friends...but they keep them. That's what the running joke was. I wish I could, in some capacity, retain my own friendship, keep my own secrets.

As it turns out, vacations are a needed thing. I can't figure how they work, exactly, and I'm sick of second opinions. Second opinions, no matter how sound, are like good intentions: they count for naught. This is just my way of screaming in a crowded room for everyone to shut up. My mind feels like the living room of my dysfunctional family on a crowded holiday. The usual suspects vying for the familial spotlight, age old arguments masquerading as some new contention, and a series of small outbursts before the big eruption and slammed screen door. Someone is running upstairs to hide their tears just as grandma's disapproving voice draws out the offender's sopping name, dribbling disdain from one end of the room to the other as it travels. Meanwhile, I sit vaporously in the corner turning my cousins into palm trees.