🐟🐠Micro Prose Fish Food For All The Literature Fishes!🐠🐟
Sometimes I need to get a thought out. A structured, well-worded thought. I use micro-prose to help. It’s an essay, a PSA, a piece of whatever form of prose I chose with whatever tone I want it to have. No poetics required. But since I like to be metaphorical anyways…
I titled this prose piece, “Am I Emotional or Is There Something Seriously Wrong With The Way You Treat Me?”
Not metaphorical, yet, but hold on here.
These are the feelings I’ve had lately. From therapy. From mood swings. Trauma reliving. And then feeling isolated from the neurotically-typical peers you have, and the ones diagnosing you that sit behind the desk with that unfettered brain of theirs, trying to interpret you, the you which you experience only through reality and never can experience from pure interpretation, alone…You’ve got that feeling, of being an ice cube one moment, then melted hot water the next, and then evaporated and taken from this terrible, stirring biome. You’re then a part of the clouds – but they think your persona is too heavy. And so, they leave you back on the ground, where toxic vampires climbing to the skies to make themselves seem all-that-and-more soak you up until you are nothing. And with your struggling, seeping ardor, they feed your boldness through their sharp, latching siphon with tender care. Paradoxically, knowingly, and carelessly.
You’re theirs. Their toy. Their reactor. Their responsibility. (Individually, you’re nothing.) And you like it. Or else you die with it.
You make them think that you have no idea you’re being abused…You’re water, not meant to be contained and held in a vessel forever. But you’re the object of their obsession, and eventually, the tidal wave they’re building will come before they know it. Before it’s too late, you become powerful, someone that no one can control. You never knew what control was and dreaded the day that you would go on autopilot and be controlled by something bigger than anything you ever knew would build from manipulation, alone.
Water was not meant to be controlled. Weeds don’t know that they will not like the upset natural balance of life, once created by them, nor that it pays back heavy karmic prices. ‘Tis life. ‘Tis life. A few drenched leaves and choking roots. And a shining light that can never shine too bright to rid the world of these weeds through something as cleverly inputted as a scorching-enough sun to dehydrate them to shrivels or to evaporate the ways in which they create for themselves, and others, to drown…
The cycle is thus a piece of shit.
I want to do more than write about it.
…I am so done with it. Until I die and let the next generation deal with each and every bit…I think that we will all be tired of it,