This is what gives me the fear – a scalding note from a superior regarding the place that I want to receive as an important nuance. There are other things, but I regrettably cannot feel those right now, only the pure jealous knowing that nothing will relate with me like the chaotic failed potential. I cannot relate. That is okay, though – I am not meant to be like the rest. Finding this out, I cannot rejoice in the valor of accomplishment, not without knowing that I am only one sainted member of this team, not able to speak, but high on righteous indignation. All he can do is hate me.
Some time soon the pale veil of fog will encompass this valley, and the news will come that all I have tried to accomplish is not available to the righteous ones. I can concern myself with the resources found near the ghost of the Chinese bookstore that used to sit on the corner where that ailing old man now sells his drugs. They always invite me to the shadow, hoping that I can be another place for them to find a heartless badger, made for shadowed laughs and turbulent niceties. There is no point.
What are we doing here? Why should I try to be the potent mid-life rapture that envelops that piece of resistance deep in my drawl? I cannot be trusted. Only the shining light takes their spot. Without the rapturous lift to heaven, the stubborn must believe. The rose finds it’s hope and I cry. There is a weapon somewhere for me to fight through these details. It is deep within my cell memory of Catholic guilt. I cannot belong to any of the other veins. They are deep blue and have mystery. This one is purple and chokes.