There. Feel Better?

It wasn't just the rainy night, it was the rain's sharp cold wetness making the black of the night's darkness feel 'in my face' threatening though I knew it was heightened by the second Utility shut off notice I'd received that day. Driving back home I began to feel pushed by a vague urgency for refuge and sanctuary and then I saw the homeless man standing quietly still under a naked leafless tree like a statue with no options and a sharp fear stabbed into me delivering a swift horrifying vision of the vagrant destiny that was hiding like a sniper in every destination, the terrifying truth of being in the universe I was in. In a brief flash its complete cloaking device failed and changed to transparency revealing its true predatory mission--the sharp, jagged, steel teeth, ankle traps that were hidden under the manicured lawn of its beguiling garden. I saw with horrible clarity its absolute and ultimate truth slamming into me with the force of a missile and instantly demolishing the minds fictional shelter of safety, leaving only the rubble amid the after quakes.

When I reached home my body even failed to respond with its customary relaxation to its familiar shelter. It knew the house was tissue paper and delivered that damage report back to the mind which contributed its own disaster inventory beginning with the crushing gravity of my age and the rapidly diminishing possibilities before me along with the cruel futility of my pathetic life efforts so far. The roof of my mind collapsed exposing a sinister curve, how had I gone from the promise of a once strong horse with good money on it to barely managing to hold onto last place. Then right on its heels, buried alive and active, was the gold platted fools gold of guilt, not the negotiable kind from a clear transgression but the nebulous time-release variety that says innocently, 'you forgot to take the garbage of your life out dear,' or , 'are you still holding onto that self serving fiction that your poverty conceals an integrity of character.' Finally, the mind's prefrontal understudy filled its cart with remaining gems from Bartlet's Famous Republican Quotations and hitched it up to the crippled pony of anxiety for the unforgettable and endless trip down memory's masochists lane with its roadside scenic views of the heart's repeated clear cuts and those tragic, slashed prices garage sale, Inspector Clouseau, sexual 'Strangelove' furtive frustration fucks that might as well have happened on Omaha Beach or the campus at Kent State, cherished American landmarks. My mind finally concluded its treasury of terrors with, of course, a swift review of every card and call of my entire life that had conveyed the comforting sign off of "Love Ya."

Finally Class was out but complaisance was not as I was assured my misery medley would return after a very brief pause during which time I'm free to attempt rebooting my serenity with a visit to my naturopathic theme park of harmony, homeostasis, and sanitary toxins; my quick yoga practice and a lump or two of cream-filled affirmations, followed by the first chapter of my newest self help book, “There, feel better?” Now you can crawl to bed for a Bob Newhart rerun and your favorite Porn. Some days there's a whole fucking hour that's acceptable. And, oh! don't forget to love yourself. Go ahead, just try...