Zealous

The front door is locked, and I fumble to find my key, inserting it properly, turning the lock as my chest falls into the door, the spaghetti strap slipped off my shoulder and the air conditioner greets me, cooling and setting the residue left from dancing my face off. My knee hits the corner of the wall, then my toe because of the whirlwind, I left the state of my house like a tornado’s aftermath.

My clothes thrown on the floor in the corner, hanging off the tufted lounge, cover every inch of the carpet, which is the price to pay to find the right dress to wear. I tripped on a sneaker making it down the hall to bathroom where I left my purse on the toilet paper holder, which I’ll be looking for in the morning, and for sure, I’ll laugh when I do.

I barely had enough time to run and shower before my girlfriend arrived to pick me up for our plans that Friday night, a jeep meet-up, then off to lose ourselves in WeHo. I am regretting the endorphins that distracted me temporarily, I was in a happy hurry! I knew I would regret the reality of the future stress I would cause myself when I woke to the mess in the morning, but it is not light out yet, and I am too tipsy to find anything less than funny. The joys of being a messy girl. I could describe everything that was in disarray, but that is insignificant, I have dreams that need tending.

The sugars of life excite my brain, and the buzz has gone. Tossing and turning, I slightly regret not having taken somebody home, really.. it is a passing pleasure that we beat ourselves up over, and I am over the waking up with regret in the morning. No one does it better than I do anyway.

Restlessness lives in me, in September the tyrannical gypsy comes out of me and the rest of the year I am a monk reading Seneca alone in my bed, this is balance. Do not blink. Do not open your eyes. Talking to myself is keeping me awake I am waking up for the sixth time since 1:59 this morning. I pull the blanket over my eyes, and breathe a huge sigh of relief, feeling my heartrate momentarily increase, and that little bit of effort gave me a little bit of peace and promise that I could get a smidge more sleep.

Sprawled out, playboy casual style on my bed, one leg drawn in, one arm laid up as a pillow, did I wake up again? Or have I been up this entire time? I am weightless but sinking with heft, into the comfort of my bed. Flattening now, sliding my head over the edge, upside down, wishing the floor were as clean as the ceiling.

Gravity assists, and I stretch my arms wrestling the spaghetti strap dress over both shoulders, slightly off the bed buzzed and frustrated, laughing and wondering if spirits are real, and if my lonely antics are humoring them. Everything off, one last stretch, back into place after my baby back bend.

I fell asleep hard, and suddenly awoke, it was as if the sheets had been ripped off my bed, exposed entirely, I reach to the ground and pulled over my silky sheets, and the fuzzy blanket. I cover the intimate parts of me, I fear I may omnipotently seduce ghosts from the nearby plot, if this occurs, I may require an exorcist’s assistance. I wonder, since I am alone, why did I bother to cover myself at all? I am not ready to be awake, the sandman lingers, but it is almost the witching hour, and I am haphazardly chasing my dreams. Sobering and sleepless I give in, watching the clocks digits increase.

Velvet veils of effortlessness, I see a goddess come in through my window. She does not lay next to me, but into me, disappearing as she does, handing me the lead attached to the man-like thing making his haughty way in. Cloudy columns, marble and gold, pitchers of wine, the man begins feeding me grapes with cheese and blueberries, one at a time, from the tips of his horns. He is not just a man, or even a bull, he is a minotaur, there is a magical mythical beast serving me fruit, but I roll with it. I feel full, but still unsatisfied, I cannot say no. I do not want to, but I cannot say yes either.

A sheer curtain blowing from the breeze in my home, near the ocean. The dampness coats every surface and curls my hair, the salt in the air flavors the room, and everything tastes better, even the thought of a stranger. There is a whisper in the air, accompanied by a vision and he turns around to speak with a new woman, and I am jealous now. His face turned, finally breaking the spell, so thick it was weighing me down, making me second guess my good sense that I thought I had now.

I blinked for the first time since he marched his way in, setting my brain on fire. I start analyzing the horns, my big eyes jump to the hoof, intentionally assessing his potential origin, demeanor, and intentions. The body language, eye contact and dissociated coldness flushes all warmth of life from me when I see just how fragile this warm beast is.

My heart fell, collapsing my lungs, I am unable to breathe for a moment because I am physically witnessing a flash of his pain, as I put myself in his hooves for a moment. I felt the burns of every branding scar that littered his back. I felt the soul of a man that became a beast, and I think I can save him, I think he just wants to be free, like me.

I move closer, silently, tip-toeing my way to remove the lead. He is trying to seduce the woman that came after me. At first, I felt envy but that was quickly overwhelmed with pity, I realize I am not mad at him, it is my childishly insecure imagination getting the better of me. We do not really change; we get better at diligently subduing vainglory and the other six deadly sins. Why would anyone be envious that a beast finds a new snack to eat?

Breathing in, holding it, letting it go, closing my eyes, opening them to see the ground was gone beneath me, or perhaps I am unaware if it was even ever there. Once I realized there was no floor, I fell. Awake! Laying on the floor next to my shoe, and now it is 3:22. Slipping sleepily back to my sheets, crawling underneath, intrigued by the philosophical vivid imagery my crazy dream had just been. Specifically, wondering what resources were used to create that, or what problem I may be struggling to solve. The scars on the minotaur reminded me of something I had seen before. Labyrinth-like lines caused by Emerald Ash larvae when they infest a tree under the bark. The creature had been branded by a thousand lovers, but no label or hot iron initial, or promise before anything almighty, could hold his once whole, now Swiss cheese of a heart.

I thought about myself and all the people who said I love you to me, or me to them, never really knowing what love meant, and never believing it either. Maybe, love is to feel both unconditionally and involuntary concerned for, also including the persevering desire to be affectionate towards, to hold dear, but not necessarily have forever, an object of desire. I would say that there may be one requirement to secure what you can love in this way, which would be someone who you would consider on some level, to have a certain depth of soul, someone who has lived enough to moral up. Someone whose pain you feel when you see them hurt. No. Love is a noun, and most of the time it is not even proper. Love seems to be defined more of the physical world involving ownership and the expectation of maintaining the luxury of belonging to said person, until death of respect, do us part. Back into the minotaur’s hole I go.

I am at the bottom of the hole that I did not fall through, laying upside down looking at the ceiling through the floor of my room. I see the horns of the minotaur; he is more than a bull and more than a man and he is shaking his head at me. Pitifully eyeing me like helpless prey, we both know I couldn’t stay away.

He is a hunter, collecting hearts like titles in the dark. This time, he does not want to be free, but he seems to want me to be. He put the lead, in my hand and told me to reattach it, so I do. He takes my hand, pulling me in, crushing me with embrace, then he just let go and grabbed my shoulders, leaving his mark on my face. He pulls on both hands while walking steadily away, stripping the ghost from inside me, she leaves my body, cocks her head to the side, far beyond a cute head tilt, she is disgusted, she looks like a very unhappy version of me, as she leads the minotaur away.

Awake! Red flashing broken digits, the clock says in red, 6:18 am, and I am standing, pushing the mirror horizontally off my dresser. Lucky I woke up before it broke, or I may have been trapped with seven years bad luck. I have no recollection of the action in my dream that would have possessed me to do this. I think there was window, was trying to close it or escape? What am I running from? I think the house was on fire. Is something in my life too much? I am not sure anymore, but I remember a menacing beast staring at me from the hole in my floor. Am I afraid of falling? There is nothing there now, so odd! Nothing, at all. Just a perfectly clean six-foot circle surrounded by the chaos of preparation for a well-moderated Friday night. I close the window, lay on the pillow and see blood from a cut on my face.