Round and Round

My brain is falling away like pieces of wet cake.
That was meant to explain why the following post(s) aren't any good,
but hey, now it's part of the post.
Italics, edgy!


I suppose I just want to tell you a bit about where I came from,
before I start talking about the grand lie that I lived last night.
It was a place full of roundabouts,
early frost,
the elderly,
and people who wished that they were dead
so that they could stop getting out of bed.
It was a place that didn't allow you to be young.
Unless you were stupid.
A vice for the imagination.
A sprawl of nothing, over nothing.
Scrubland turned into suburbia turned into concrete playground.
But nobody loved it, and nobody loved in it.
Nothing was beautiful and everything hurt.
But I learned.
I learned fast what things weren't fatal.
You could prick your thumbs on the head of a pin,
for something to do -
and did! -
but you had to know which quills weren't poisoned.


And you learned fast,
or you went mad,
and you yearned for something more.


And now I'm here. 
Rather than there, that is.
And everything is beautiful, and nothing hurts -
but every quill is poisoned,
and every smile has fangs;
because the beauty and the mystery and the imagination
the vim, the vigor, the fire, the life -
well, life calls to life.
And attracts predators.


I'm surrounded, but at least I'm not going in circles.


That's something.