It is messy. Garbage thoughts leaking from a bag, the stench of tossed away dreams. A thin layer of plastic is no match for the heaviness that pokes holes as spoilage seeps out. I think I’m defective as I’m never truly happy. I keep wanting and yearning for things that are beyond my grasp.
My head is floating in puffy clouds with no intention of coming back down to earth. I day dream and fantasize, those delicious vignettes probably belong in the trash bin because I know I don’t have the guts to consume. They eventually go bad as I never acknowledged them out loud.
There is so much about me that I leave out of conversations and interactions. I’m passionate, creative, romantic and sensitive. If all the thoughts could escape the confines of where I hid them, it could be problematic on different levels.
If I could I would run away to New York City and never look back. I suffer from romantic brain. My dream used to be to marry someone on the busy streets of Manhattan. Baby breath pinned upon my chocolate locks of hair, egg shell colored business suit clung to my curvy body. The event would end as I passionately kissed a tall man with dark hair. After the vowing and promising we part ways as if having a quick exchange. Then meet up later for a dance on the observation deck of the Empire State Building. The skyline would serve as my maid of honor and the island bearing witness. I feel silly in these child-like plays that go on in my head.
Relationships and careers are messy. For some reason it is hard to tend to both simultaneously. For so long I didn’t focus on writing. It was one of those thoughts I keep in a Tupperware container and shoved in the back of the fridge. It would catch my eye sometimes when I felt restless and had a craving. Somehow it never grew stale and rotted.
Now I am a writer, a success that was years in the making. My face is either on the computer or on the phone. My love life has taken a hit. His attention is glued to Facebook or television. Arguments over a lack of money, lack of affection, lack of effort bogs me down. There is no money or time to take a vacation or get coffee together.
One car, student loans, bills and family woes are not helping us.
Coping methods have included commiserating with wine, junk food and Adele songs. I keep cramming the unwanted thoughts and feelings in the trash bin. The bag now full and plastic stretching thin, I’m scared the rift will expand and all the thoughts will tumble out and be exposed. It will be ugly and messy. I'm glad we can be messy together.