in a town full of rubber plans to get rid of itself. it wears her out, it wears her out...

she was prepackaged. fate, or jesus, or buddha had determined her outcome. she lived in a town that had fallen asleep hundreds of years ago and had never woken up from the dream of blackbirds and pumpkin pies. she kept her distance from the scraggly teeth of the white haired turnip farmers and the oversized, over-washed sweatshirts of the mothers of the chapped lipped kids who stalked the streets that were desolate by five in the afternoon.

the town was destroying itself. it had been since the beginning of its existence. it never had a chance. the dirt was filled with the remains of those that had tried to stretch out towards the sun, but withered before their leaves could touch that area of the sky that songbirds and snowflakes originate from. it was like watching a friend huff a can of spray paint every day- so ridiculous she almost wanted to giggle at the scene presented before her, but at the same time feeling the natural dread of watching something close to you teetering on the edge of self-demolition. it wore her out.

the salty summers and indigo winters had been filled with the desires that so many on the edge of adulthood feel. the desires to branch out, to find solace in coffeehouses of bustling streets, to grasp onto the beatnik indie youths that reflected the ideals of the lost generation.

it was the yellow leaf that floated its way into the window of her rusty boxcar that caused the anxieties of denial to surface with the urgency of a child who has just swam the distance of the neighborhood's pool. it was her companion. it silently rode with her- only noticeable when it would flutter in the same winds that had brought it to its home on the gray passenger's seat.

for a week the golden leaf remained on its pedestal. by the time the restlessness had reached its peak, it was the warmest thursday morning of fall. she had skipped her early classes and her hands were sewed to the steering wheel. the windows were down as was only proper for a morning when a knitted sweater was all that was needed to evoke the feeling of being nestled n sunday morning in a field of comforters and quilts.

the plaid-clothed man walking the sidewalk waved to the aging red pickup that moseyed along the two lane road with the enthusiasm that can only be shared by two men full of fried eggs and gossip about the local football players. a middle school girl wrapped her arm around the shoulders of her slightly shorter love interest as they both beamed with the radiance of the freedom of walking to school like miniature adults.

she parked in the gravel pull-off adjacent to the highest grassy knoll of town and hummed as she screeched open her door. the hills loomed in the distance of the morning's pseudo fog like a scene from wuthering heights. as she laid her leather boots onto the dew glossed blades of grass, she could feel her roots. she couldn't deny their pull that tangled and twisted her. they held her steady and she couldn't deny her secret suicidal nature a single moment longer. she loved this town.

we shared a tent in which i could not sleep at all...

i found this and given the indescribable emotions plaguing my brain lately, i suppose it carries more meaning. it reminded me why i love dance...even the flaws...

after a recital:

the curtains close and from behind them
you hear the pitter-pattering feet
of the last of the crowd dispersing.
the hanging velvet brushes your fingertips
as you glide in between tutus and skirts,
a dance in itself.
off stage, you are encompassed in a swirling mass of familiar faces-
all reflecting your feeling of accomplishment.
the metallic sound of taps hitting the floor
startles you out of the world of flying bobby pins
and into the world of reality.
the once glorious get-up that you reveled in moments ago
becomes a straight jacket confining your soul.
you see everything in a different eye
now that you have left an environment
of blinding lights and blaring music.
you are once again just a name, just a number.
you slip off your armbands of oppression
and retrieve your mirror out of a sea of pink and tan in one fluid motion.
red lipstick and hooker blush disintegrate
beneath your tissue draped fingertips.
your hands now cradle your pseudo-self
and gazing into the mirror you recognize yourself
for the first time in days
and in a way, you are reborn.