Pictograms Are Not Scots Bearing Messages

These wipers, like my sanity, were intermittent. Headlights were on, like floating lanterns that douse themselves just after dawn. Rain sizzled on burning bridges that I didn’t even know existed. Does that mean melancholy trumps anger?

Straw lay over barren spots where grass seed had been planted and fertilized. Whether the straw was to keep birds from eating the seeds, or to later feed the lawn, was unclear. What was clear to everyone but vegans is that all plants are necrotic cannibals, feeding on their dead, even on bits of themselves. Does that mean despite our best intentions, we feed on ourselves, our memories, our dead pasts?

When it’s dark outside, every window becomes a mirror, reflecting ourselves and preventing us from seeing anything outside unless we concentrate and turn our lights out. Being in darkness is sometimes the only way to see outside ourselves. This wouldn’t work in a completely dark room with no windows. Instead, we see inside ourselves more easily. Which is better – seeing within ourselves, seeing ourselves as others see us, or seeing outside ourselves? It doesn’t matter – I’m not alone when the TV is on.

I have a pair of headphones where the right phone only works if I tilt my head slightly to the left. Sometimes a different perspective is all you need to get both sides of things. Sometimes headphones are all you need to drown out voices that would tear you down. But it doesn’t fix anything, any more than turning up your stereo fixes your car. If you need any more proof that we see music as well as hear it, think about the last time you were looking for an address while driving. You turned down your stereo to help you see better, didn’t you.

Synesthesia is a condition where senses have their wires crossed – you hear colors, feel sounds, smell textures, that sort of thing. Sometimes I think I have a version of this, but for nonsense. Everything I smell, see, hear, touch, or taste just seems ridiculous, absurd, surreal, bizarre and pointless. To become anything resembling ‘normal’, I must sense nothing. That’s when everything comes alive, an empty vessel to be filled.

I’m just dirt under a shovel, waiting for someone to dig me.


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