I want to escape this place; I want to run, run, run away.
Where is my comfort, where is my home? It's certainly not where I am, for I do not feel the least bit comforted. Anxiety has gotten past my security guards, Disappointment following closely behind. My guards are desperately trying to stay alive, against the cruel adamantine swords and spears of the enemy.
Mutton bit Mom early this morning. She was making scissor-snipping movements at the dog, and he just growled, barked and bit her hand. She screamed. I was, however, in the shower, and way too sleepy to be bothered to rush there and exclaim. My eyes were half-closed, my mouth was filled with foamy toothpaste, my hair in a mess.
Mutton doesn't like Mom somehow. I guess he feels constantly threatened by her. I don't blame him. She just kept screaming at the dog, about how she was going to send him back to his previous owner. She kept shoving her dog-bite wound (a medium-sized purple bite mark) in Dad's and my face and exclaiming about it in her super-high-pitched, super-irritating voice.
I feel so out of place sometimes but, then again, nobody ever said family members had to have the same attitudes, views, thoughts, acts, words, manners. It all just seems so insignificantly minuscule, unworthy of time and attention.
I want to get away from here, away from these people, these subjects, these harsh words. Every time I close my eyes, I'm back at Venice. Every time I day-dream, I'm flying. And then, reality grabs me back, threatening to engulf me in a wave of nails.
Venice. How many times have I stood at the water's edge? How many times have I gone back in my dreams? How many times have I closed my eyes and felt the crisp, cool morning air on my skin? How many times?
A one-way ticket to Europe.
Where is my comfort, where is my home? It's certainly not where I am, for I do not feel the least bit comforted. Anxiety has gotten past my security guards, Disappointment following closely behind. My guards are desperately trying to stay alive, against the cruel adamantine swords and spears of the enemy.
Mutton bit Mom early this morning. She was making scissor-snipping movements at the dog, and he just growled, barked and bit her hand. She screamed. I was, however, in the shower, and way too sleepy to be bothered to rush there and exclaim. My eyes were half-closed, my mouth was filled with foamy toothpaste, my hair in a mess.
Mutton doesn't like Mom somehow. I guess he feels constantly threatened by her. I don't blame him. She just kept screaming at the dog, about how she was going to send him back to his previous owner. She kept shoving her dog-bite wound (a medium-sized purple bite mark) in Dad's and my face and exclaiming about it in her super-high-pitched, super-irritating voice.
I feel so out of place sometimes but, then again, nobody ever said family members had to have the same attitudes, views, thoughts, acts, words, manners. It all just seems so insignificantly minuscule, unworthy of time and attention.
I want to get away from here, away from these people, these subjects, these harsh words. Every time I close my eyes, I'm back at Venice. Every time I day-dream, I'm flying. And then, reality grabs me back, threatening to engulf me in a wave of nails.
Venice. How many times have I stood at the water's edge? How many times have I gone back in my dreams? How many times have I closed my eyes and felt the crisp, cool morning air on my skin? How many times?
A one-way ticket to Europe.
No comments:
Post a Comment