Decussation

I feel I share more in common with a butterfly than a monkey. I may be related to the ape, but I relate with the bug. I think it's the metamorphosis aspect. Life isn't gradual or natural; it's jarring and confusing. A lot of people just go naturally into their roles; seem to know how to grow. Butterflies, however, go through a variety of traumatic stages from larvae to pupa to caterpillar to finally the winged beauty everyone becomes giddy about. That sort of growth seems so much more applicable to my experience, almost as physically as mentally. I'm just now getting out of my ugly stage...I would like to think anyway. I would also like to think that one day I can be a something someone gets giddy about, but that's probably a healthy distance off.

Having crissed and crossed my way through varying mindsets, sometimes in a single day, I find my life in strange and constant state of decussation. A constant X. An X that doesn't always mark the spot. X means I'm in one place while in another, and somewhere in the center is what I am. Thus through this process of the X, my metamorphosis began.

Waking up was hard to do at fourteen. Every morning I felt like that man in that Pixies song, the one that got killed by ten thousand pounds of sludge or whatever. It may have been routine to blame; the great soul destroyer, or maybe routine was what I needed; the holy soul saver? Showers were nice, but only because they made it easier to imagine washing all the sludge off. After that I'd throw something on, skip breakfast, and trudge to school, dripping slime all the while.

If routine wasn't a murderer, education most certainly was. Everyday was a box with no light and very little oxygen. On this day in particular, I had found the room to breathe slightly less and the light much dimmer. I was supposed to be doing a mock interview for Sterling Scholar, something I wasn't prepared for in the slightest. There was a twisting in me, a grief, and it had been tumbling about in my mind and my stomach for a good period of time. A change was needed, a puncture, and then a rupture. If it didn't come out soon, it would find it's own way to express itself, possibly by making my head pop off like a bottle cap in the middle of class. Not only would I be headless but my unsaid sorrows would spill(along with a lot of blood) all over the floor and everyone would be able to see it.

I decided it best to leave class and indeed school, less a sudden cant from my insides forced me to spontaneously dishevel.

(to be continued).