She is the eye of a maelstrom. Sitting on her bedroom floor, knees pulled up under her chin, she rocks as a child does for self-comfort. The wallpaper scorched by her rage, streaked with her tears. Tentacles of strewn clothes, toppled pots of creams and colours, a tart-sweet lemon pool of lotion, sticky puddle of wine and broken glass.
“I’m as broken as the glass,” she thinks. “I’m crazy, I need krazy glue.” A tiny wet smile, so slight no canyons of wrinkles appear on her cheeks. Calming, she wonders back.
An invitation between coffee addicts frequenting the same café. “Kitchen party . . . drop by . . . bring your kazoo.”
Gives her twizzling sparkler against the bleakness of her thoughts and nights.
Finds diaphanous lavender and iris skirt from ancient days hanging in the darkest part of her closet. Unpacks linen sleeveless tunic in shades of delicate greens and fragile blues. Digs through her dusty containers of beads and findings to create jewelry to match her clothing palette.
“I can do this” is her mantra. Her life-line. The rope, like her mind, is frayed. Strains under the load of anxiety and expectation. It breaks; she breaks. Scene of carnage in her bedroom the result.
She knows a few rational moments exist before she cries again. Gets that forbidden replacement glass of wine. Takes pictures (some selfies) for her electronic bipolar scrapbook. Postcards on her trip towards stability.
Smartphone rings. She automatically answers. Time: 9:30 pm.
“Hey, everything okay with us?” Warm sounds of musical friendship gathering blend behind Jonah’s voice. “Miss your kazoo. Miss you more. . .” At 9:31 pm her heart starts beating. Her life clock ticking.
Still beating, still ticking at 10:15 when Jonah knocks on her door. “Folks can take care of themselves while I walk you over to the party.”
Woven, unwound, rewoven many times for Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie Tale Weaver #31: The Stopped Clock.
@ phylor, 2015