Was It The Chicken Or The Egg?

"What about me?"

"Well, what about you?"

"Are you taking me with you?"

"No.  No I'm not."

"Why?"  

"Because you're just not alive."

And the dust on the closed blinds mock me.  And the piles of clothes on the floor betray me.  And the unchanged light bulbs in the bathroom tell me I'm trapped.

But it's not my fault.

Because something is different now.  It's like I'm putting the emphasis on the wrong syllable of every word.  It's like I'm wearing my socks on the outside of my shoes.  It's like the snow won't stick.

Except I'm not worried about that anymore.  Because waiting for things to be right is like waiting for Jesus.  Literally.  I'm waiting for Jesus to come and make things right again.  Like when I was strange but no one cared, when the only F-word we knew was "fair." When eggs were just eggs and daddies liked to smile.  

And maybe, just maybe, I'd like to smile once in a while, too.  But that opportunity left when you did.  Or did you leave because I never smile?  I can't remember.  It's just another chicken/egg situation, I guess. 

But I don't know, really.  
I don't know a lot of things.  
I don't know why my back hurts after seizures or why ice cream tastes better when you're crying.  I don't know why pigs like mud or why mustard is sour or why I can't seem to turn on a light.  I don't know why you think it's alright to tell me I'm not alive.  Because I have hundreds of cells and and liters of blood and a heart that feels more than a burning sensation after eating too much ginger.  I have ideas and holes and hearts and bones.  

And bones...
Maybe that's what is wrong.
My bones. 

Because My bones don't care about other people or even other people's pets.  My bones want the world on a platter--all sliced up in neat cubes and arranged in a semi-circle, garnished with cilantro and respect.  

And my head wants my bones to shut up.  My head wants facts and reason.  My head wants a list full of numbers and letters, a clear and wide eyed response as to why we're so messed up. 

So why can't I say I'm done?  Why can't I say I'm done with heads and bones?  Because neither can tell me what's right and neither can compromise or sacrifice or realize that some things are more important than silly arguments.

Silly arguments like chicken and eggs and smiling.

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