Red Light, Green Light

I feel sometimes as though if no one hands me a pen, if no ink falls from the sky with which to empty the spirit worth of words that throbs from within my mind, I would explode. I would scream. That the tears--a spirit's translation--would turn to fire before leaving my eyes. It would radiate from my pores, steam masking the vibrations my wailing created. And this is how I knew what my life would mean.

Is my purpose in mid-revival? I feel like my soul is growling. The halls they press and might as well be prisons, the weight of leaving too much grapefruit juice in the fridge, the guilt of allowing the melon to overripen, and I cannot speak of it. Polypragmus and his heartbreak and my broken cuticles and forgetting deodorant, what kind of person am I? I'm a monkey and I'm furious, and I bleed blue and see stars. And no one can tell me when to stop, and if they did I would shriek, I would press my lips together and blink too quickly and ignore too many people. I fill notebooks with scribble but I know it, and I want to dance but cannot move. I feel shaky, I cannot hide, I thought to myself, "You could not be so good to me." My red pen died today and I tried to remember its length of service, then I threw it to the ground and retrieved this blue one. Blue like sky and the water and some birds and grande hot lid labels, which I tell apart from the tall lids because grande is blue and the sky is blue and the sky is grande. And as my right thumb cramps and my writing callous grows, I can feel my lungs breathing and my heart slowing and my mouth corners upturning. My English teacher told me he was sure I could relate to Virginia Woolf, who drowned herself because she had too much to say and no way to say it. She felt trapped in her own mind. And I looked past the suicide and immediately thought, "thank you for knowing that I've never related to anything more in my entire life."