The Root of the Tree that Stands in my Path

Marlon Brando as Stanley Kowalski
in A Street Car Named Desire
(photo from Van Vechten Collection)

Yes I admit I can be quite obsessive and overly analytical.  It started when I couldn't figure out how to make an origami box following a set of 2-dimensional instructions.  Having this trait feels like a gift and a curse, moreso of the latter since I have been the object of contention for some time now.

I am the biggest chess game I can't solve.  I make moves, know my strengths but somehow fall prey to my weaknesses.  I follow the rules, I try to keep patient even if I the urge to stand up and walk out pulls at me from behind.  I'm getting tired of this game that I never really like playing.

Everytime I am confronted by a problem, I always look inward.  I analyze my behavior, my reactions.  I try to find the root to the tree that stands in my way.  I run to keep up, I hack everything in sight, I fall on my knees and say penance.  I don't think anybody can help me so I must do this on my own.

I am my biggest critic and so I imbibe within me all the thoughts of the people I've come across.  I am at the floor of a dome that reflects the voices of its Church, the disappointments and hopes it acknowledges as the genuflect before being received along the pews.  I am the confessional box that keeps all of the sins of the faithful up until the light is turned off and the priest breathes one last prayer of absolution.

I am the sum of questions without answers, walking the streets in a rush to rub the feet of the idols near the church entrance; I play the part of the pious who feels he doesn't know what he's doing but can't do anything about it.  The man who can't decide and makes making excuses a subconscious habit.  The negative nancy who genuinely wants to try, but drew water instead of blood.

Tired, I sit on the fallen branches pondering the root of the tree instead of climbing it.  The time is running out but I stubbornly wait for the apple to fall on my head once more.

If this tree falls to the ground and nobody witnesses it nor hear its verses ... does it mean I am the only witness to its downfall?
 

A Delayed Entry

Hot. Pink. Mess.

I honestly enjoyed your stories about casinos and VIPs, how you enjoyed the view outside the balcony, how I looked at you from behind the curtains and noted your sinewy frame, how you were dying to light a cigarette, anxious about the night.  

I enjoyed how subtlely and deceptively you asked for a massage. You know exactly how to get what you want and underneath that gamine frame, I would say you are quite the aggressive hunter.

I started with your neck and shoulders, being careful not to break them.  You said you liked how big my hands are and how warm my body was.  I gently rubbed your back, your tiny waist, amazed how smooth your body was, even your legs.  You smelled good enough to eat.  And so I ate you.

But there was no chemical reaction, no fire that you sparked in me.  In fact I would say you pumped the gas burner too hard and ruined it.  You offered an exchange instead, and I suppose I felt insulted somewhat by this barter.  And so it was my turn now to stand outside the balcony to ponder what the fuck just happened.  Afterwards I stayed in bed next to you, cradled you in my arms as if you were mine and we slept together soundly.