When Bricks Penetrate the Windows of Conscience.

"My business is words. Words are like labels, or coins, or better, like swarming bees. I confess I am only broken by the sources of things; as if words were counted like dead bees in the attic, unbuckled from their yellow eyes and their dry wings. I must always forget how one word is able to pick out another, to manner another, until I have got something I might have said, but did not."- Anne Sexton, (Said the Poet to the Analyst)

I wanted in, maybe not even "in" but a sort of halfway, perhaps between the kneecaps and my convictions. I, who was willing to be satisfied with the oddments of whatever the Beautiful could manage to leave behind, was left with little more than meager clumps of dust in my efforts to infiltrate the foreign system called the "norm." I wanted to understand it. I forced myself in a desperate attempt to decipher the intricate web of caste, and where might a moderately shy bookworm (such as myself) fit into this labyrinth of prestige and supremacy.

My soul lusted after the glitter, the security that it had to offer. Perhaps even my own little cozy corner of the box. Or was that too much? Maybe just an envelope in which to keep my most prized of possessions in my back pocket… I wonder if compassion could pass the final rations. Perhaps not.

I craved every inch of what I saw. It was so vividly perfect, like some flawless portrait of the evening sky at solstice. I could not manage to find any fault, though in reality, I need not have looked far. I was about to have the reason knocked into me by no gentle forces or means.

Perhaps that is why I am the way that I am. I was thrust out of society's grasp, out of that intricate and supportive web, and thus have been left to weave for myself a cocoon from which I am not sure I will ever emerge. But I am more unsure if there will be anything there besides shabby flannel shirts and an unkempt mane. And maybe a substantial number of ramblings to match.