Her Morbid Mosaic Mystique
I have never met anyone in my life that was more complex and more pessimistic than she was. She had always boggled my mind. Unlike the game of Boggle, no matter how hard I shook her, those obnoxiously loud little cubes did not settle into actual words. Whichever way you turned her, the sequence of letters did not clarify a thing. The words that came from her mouth, or pen, were always far beyond my comprehension. They never fell into their plastic square grid forming logical explanatory words, the dice just tumbled into a muddling mayhem.
She grew up in a loving home and seemed to have passed through all the proper and common channels into adolescence. She was stubborn, unfaltering, and highly motivated. She constantly aimed for perfection. She seemed to a be a typical teenager and average student, everything appeared to be ordinary from a distance. However, from nearby, not so much.
She spoke in riddles, confusing even herself, at times. Her writings were unusually bitter and unhappy, unnaturally gruesome and brooding. There were many mentions of death and darkness and quite an impressive vocabulary, that till this day, I can not make sense of. Behind every word of her poems were strings of meanings and alternate ways of understanding each phrase, even Shakespeare would have been impressed.
She was insightful and caring, yet seemingly disinterested and cold. She was reserved and unpretentious, she expressed herself through cryptic writing and black drawings. In general, even if she was not so esoteric, the impression that she gave off was peculiar and enigmatic. She was unknown to even herself.
She was a bit of a loner and was always buried deep in her thoughts. She suffered from many sleepless nights, and it seemed like no one could ever perceive what was going through her mind. I don’t have the luxury of meeting her again and figuring out what made her who she was. She is gone, and I have no recollection of why she was that way. I only have some memories and stacks of depressing and puzzling poems.
I need to pull out a dictionary and get to work. I am determined to understand why there is so much pain, and to see why she felt the need to tangle every bit of knowledge she had, into an intricate web of fire and fury. Maybe then I will find the answer behind these unbearably humorless posts that stretch back to the beginning of this blog.
I love light humor blogs and would enjoy nothing more than to start my mornings with a tall glass of wine and an entertaining and comical read. I have had the pleasure of reading many funny blogs. And with a tall glass of wine, well, only in my dreams. But every time I write a post, it starts to overflow with humorless text, an obvious stiffness, and lack of enthusiasm. My blog officially needs a Gothic makeover or content revision. I even get depressed after reading it. It has transformed into a somber, funereal, painful read.
But as much as I love the humor, it’s hard to play the part of someone so different from myself. I should go back to writing poetry. Oh, maybe there is an opening for poetry in the obituary column of the newspaper. You see, you gotta be optimistic. I may still have a future.
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