Somewhere along the way, I found a little red collectable. It was like a ruby, a precious stone that burned with the fires of life. This stone was to always be kept safe within a traveler. I stored it within my thin skin, which was all I had in the beginning. Sooner or later, I found other collectables, things like music, songs, lyrics, as well as pencils, colorful pens, and copious amounts of journals. These journals grew with me, starting with simple accountings of a days end, to poetry of a 10 year old, and then songs of the middle schooler. I grew full of words that needed a home and didn’t know where to put such wonderful things. I was overwhelmed with what I saw each and every day.. and conflicted with the things I felt. As I grew older, the red collectable of mine needed to be kept safer- for knights in shining amor who promised protection turned out to be devils in disguise. I cried with the sad songs of spirits lost, only to be rekindled again by another knight, each and every time more mysterious, and more willing to break down my castle walls.
I was always collecting. Fiddles and jewels, dresses and makeup- to make the eyes ever so alluring. I never liked it to begin with; I garnered too much attention for something so silly as a cat’s eyes. Surely there were cats in others’ kingdoms; ones that also enjoyed naps and secret alcoves no one knew of. I saw many humans, deadbeat and drunk. With what, I hadn’t a clue. I always wanted to ask people, “What are your passions?” “What are the things you feel?” “Are you ashamed of these things?” “Why don’t you talk about the things poets write about? Instead of repeating what the telly so eloquently puts in front of you?” I never liked the telly. Now-a-days it’s not even so eloquent. We’re told to not speak of erotic things, yet they’re placed in front of us every day. Some not so seemingly fit for virgin ears and eyes. That’s what I’ve heard. But how do you censor an entire race? I don’t approve, but these robots seem to attack person-by-person, slowly changing the things we see and the things we project. I don’t prefer to be censored at all. In fact, I despise it. I’d rather not hear of someone telling of their ideal rape-situation, but I also have no argument for the girl wearing her underwear out and about. I don’t know what to do about this- my morals are not in everyone’s ruby red stone.
I wonder if everyone has a stone. Perhaps it’s black as night, or maybe it’s not even there at all. Would the cruelest person carry a black stone or would they be full of nothing? A vast amount of empty, surging through the skin, or a stinging pain of ruthless destruction. Surely they can’t belong to the same stone. If you are destruction, you’re evil. If you are empty, you’re sad. If you’re beating viciously with the red pumping of a savior’s soul, you’re the happy one. The others are not worthy. They can’t be helped. And this is how the world sees through there ignorant tunnel eyes.
I’ve seen stones of purple, blue, yellow, green, orange, white, and even gold. No stone is more powerful, nor happier than any others. I enjoy figuring these folks out; finding out their colors; the way they see things; how they live and want to live. Is the way I live the way I choose, or is it thrusted upon me? Am I unknowingly great, or a mediocre excuse for a spirit? I enjoy the feasts of kings and wouldn’t slay a dragon if you begged me to. I would live with a monkey in a cabin in the woods, if I was invited to Hogwarts in the fall for school. Although, I’m sure I’d live with the monkey any way. If I could own 14 dogs, a baby elephant, a dragon, and still have my monkey- that would be the dream. No Frollyshould, Hollywood shit, I’d be a queen. I’d be terrible at ruling, because I pretty much failed politics in high school, but I’d surely try to dictate and implant my rules. In dress-up, I was the mommy, the babysitter, the fairy god-mother, the leader of the world, and above-all: queen. In psych class, we learned of our childhood past and that these roles we played influenced us as a person in later years. I’ve only become quieter, silenced by the effort to drown my imagination in a world of practical and mundane. It was tough, and I’m still struggling to get out of it. I’m remembering of my wishes, though. A wish to see the world a better place, although, the most memorable of my childhood wishes ran along the lines of: fame. I wanted to be a singer, to sing to the people that thought I had something to be admired for. This went on for years. I went through a dark place for almost a years time, thinking my only way out was to sing. I was Cinderella locked away in my own head at 16 years old. I lost my stone, and that scared me terribly.
Growing older, I still struggled in finding my stone. I thought it was blue, green, yellow, and for a while even rainbow. I did whatever it took to find it, but I was trying too hard and fell too deep. I met a knight along the way. But this is my story and no foolish dingo-brain wrapped in tin foil is going to ruin my story-book ending. I hoped he was out in the sun too long that he caught fire and screamed all the way to the edge of the Earth. A second knight came later, and he is very charming, but I know of my throne. No dingo-brains, no matter how smooth will pry me with their words from my seated home. I always stay true to myself, and it’s gotten easier with age.
I hear stories of the deemed, “selfie queen,” but I will have none of that. I see humans imitate one another like there’s something to be gained from it all. I hear words of hoopla garbage stinging me through the radio. I have no control, and my rulership vanishes. Certainly I cannot rule the world, it’s only in a fantasy. But where does reality end and fantasy begin? I cannot rule over my own biological clock, but I can chose what to do in the meantime. It’s when butter-squashed dingle-hooves try to tell me the best use of my own clock- the one hanging in my own house- and what to do before I die, that I blow up Narnia with a twitch of my temples.
I never ask for others to listen to me when I talk, because if they truly understood, I wouldn’t have to ask. It’s hard being surrounded by so many peasants day after day. My sarcasm drips onto the keys as my thoughts come out in an egotistical mess of self-worth. I never had a problem thinking I was less than anyone. It’s actually something I don’t know how to sympathize with because I know my worth. It’s trying to find others to share my understanding, finding others who can look at the sky and tell me anything about it; not look at me like, “Well, it’s blue?” Those aren’t the things I want.
If I could escape to a place, any place, I don’t know where I’d tell you I’d be off to. I might want to see the ocean and the waves, try sailing, or go to a bistro and try everything in sight. Perhaps I’d go to Europe, or Asia, Australia or Africa. The thing is, if you ask me to tell you the thing I’d want most in life right now, I wouldn’t be able to tell you what that would be. It’s probably a significant thing to know, but here I am.. wordless.