Wallowing in the balm of self-abuse.  Bomb.  Sometimes only it soothes.  I let reams and reams of words float through my brain, through the day, words like lost waifs that beg with poignant eyes and broken-hearted hope for recognition, or acknowledgement, or even just for some evidence that their existence is not totally and completely superfluous to the world.  Words.  Were. 

Like throwing pennies away.  It's wrong.  It's a waste.  I discard the most precious thing that could ever come this way, and I feel powerful -- like the five year old who threw the Sunday roast on the kitchen floor.  I want to feel powerful, senselessly powerful in the way a drowning man in desperate panic attacks his rescuer.  I do what I don't want to do; because I don't want to die, and I don't like to cry, and I do not want the responsibility of these precious things, words. 

So I throw them away.  Oh, if you only knew the words from today, the stories they told, the fictions they wove more true than any fact.  Characters with breaking-blooming hearts, plots of universal significance, songs of hoping-eyes brightened, of unlived lives brought to glorious joyous life...  I trash them all.  Then in tears I go back, as now, to recover, reclaim, retrieve; to regain some fragment of that which I discard as the result of trantrums so very infantile -- as the result of agonies all too mature.

I must post this -- whatever this is -- before my electricity is shut off for the night (Mass Electric is doing upgrades in the neighborhood), and before I lose my fickle Internet connection.  The anxiety of the end is always the last reason to start.  Sometimes it is the only reason.