I Wonder

Where is the challenge in your laugh. The simple hand turns a phrase to your liking. The smile and the praise come without effort. I would have craved this so long ago, but now I wonder, in a sick and perverse logic that serves only to destroy me, what value does that have. Why must all good things be presented at the end of a razor. With my fist clenched, beating the table, my body rocks in wonder, how could I have jaded myself to all joy that may come my way. Like some strange story told to me by a dying relative, I believe that I must suffer greatly for a moment of joy. As though i can only be seen once at the precipice of my own demise. My value lies in my capacity to be a victim to the unfortunate ill of existence. In those moments I can obfuscate the role I played in crafting my own misery and in so doing avoid accountability.  If the world breaks me enough, perhaps some one will rise from the smoke and save me from the horrors of my own reflection.

Sadly, that is a fatalist dream. I am this bag of blood and flesh. This is who I am. I will be seen as many a wonderful, strange and horrific things along the way. What else can I be but the person I have come to know myself to be.

Or perhaps I turn the scalpels I have collected  in my flesh and place them in these quivering hands. No man nor woman know the maps of my mind as well as I, layman though I am. Modifications may be in order. this may get bloody, and and i doubt that all of me will survive. Lets us hope that the dead and numb cannot feel pain.