I stare into what I have seen a million times before, shyly anticipating noticing something new, because a different angle can reveal so many things. I do not need much these days, I say. Then I grow silent, waiting for a devilkin friend to mock my insincerity. This make-believe riot will always be a part of me, and I no longer mind the noise it produces. Not often, anyway. I am still bitter, like a lemon ripe with juice. But I am warm and coated with brown sugar. I still pace back and forth and dig a hole for myself. I still beat at the walls, and stomp on the floors. But, you see, things like that can sound like music, if you want them to. I have come to learn that words written in stone, or with them, are not permanent. Time will always win, so it is best to cooperate.
Do not misunderstand. I can still complain, and I will. Oh, I do not know anymore. I am a rainbow, then the moon, then nothing at all. I am first divine and abundant, then become the whispered message that is impossible to interpret. The complexities do not always have to be quieted by pills. Now, and perhaps not for long, all of this is fully accepted. The inconveniences do not frighten me. I do not reject them.