p(r)etty little trouble

sometimes feeling entirely empty is the most comforting feeling ever.

"What, after all, is a clock? Without your grownup it is nothing. It is the grownup who winds it, who sets it back or ahead, who takes it to the watchmaker to be checked, cleaned, and when necessary repaired. Just as with the cuckoo that stops calling too soon, just as with upset saltcellars, spiders seen in the morning, black cats on the left, the oil portrait of Uncle that falls off the wall because the nail has come loose in the plaster, just as in a mirror, grownups see more in and behind a clock than any clock can justify."

it's like i'm here, helpless, watching myself drive a car the wrong way down the street. i want to make it stop, but i just don't. it's as if i just can't - like the words and right actions froze somewhere in my chest. EXPLAIN.

i really did. to keep my comments inaudible. to smooth the curl of disdain from my lips and nostrils. i can't really help myself. despite the kind of intentions that de-motivate me to give myself away in small, bloody strips to anyone who asks, and some who don't. (nothing helps). i've tried to put everything in the right place. to find order, accomplishment. accomodate. never to upset the carefully orchestrated atmosphere of those i attend to, but could not help. (this is an ugly thing). happiness could be yours,
absently.