And then. . .

no text, or poem, or short story blurb, just me.  me who is tired of writing a thesis i just want to be over with me who is already tired of moving me who needs some space  me who is tired of people opinions, because really they just tell you what they would do,  me who is starting a new adventure me who eloped, because, well because yes me who sometimes has trouble letting go of people and  me who sometimes lets go too easily.  stubborn, unforgiving, with standards some can't live up to i sit an office in a warehouse, trying to write about a life that i have a hard time remembering and sometimes just don't want to remember.  "You're just scared," He said last night.  and that's just it, i think He is right.  me who needs to face & let go of people and things and junk, and put it in a box not to have it fester later,  but to just deal with it and be done, with them, it, all of it. 

I am a soup on the stove, blue orange gassed fueled fire heating me up slowly, until  gradually I start to simmer. The tiny bubbles which disturb the smooth liquid surface are the things I cannot control. They are the tiny irritations in life which can't be avoided.  The great moments which are needed. As quickly as they began  they are lost in the movement of the liquid that is life.  Tiny bits of chicken from the bottom of the soup surface  at times  and bounce off the bottom of the pot. Those are the things I wish to avoid.  The problems which are so heavy they sink back down to the bottom of the murky soup not to be seen for awhile. They are things like my dad, who deserves to be compared to chicken. And things like my grandma who died without letting me say good-bye. How selfish of her.  The heat increases   and I bubble.  I am a soup on the stove.  The blue orange fueled fire has not increased....