I feel bad for the little guy. Lots of nights he wakes up in a cold sweat, trembling in his fishy scales. He reaches out in the dark waters of his tank for some sort of grasp on reality, some sort of comfort. He is greeted with his faux plants and rough pebbles--the blankets and teddy bears of his aquatic abode.
But it doesn't stop the fear, not really. He looks to me for some sort of salvation from the terror, to tell him everything is fine. And I try, I really do, but we both know he can't speak human and I'm still brushing up on my betta tongue.
So I turn on the light, but it doesn't matter now.
He hears every noise the house composes into the sticky night air.
The breathing of the air vent, the clatter of a falling object, the creeks and aches of the house's bones.
He can't stand it.
His scales flare out in a million nerve crashing spasms. He tosses his head into the bristles of the plants, he strokes the smooth cold walls of the tank. Anything to escape his wandering mind.
The insanity storms above his head like a merciless cloud of distress and apprehension.
How can he expect to move on? To fall back asleep?
It never really was his thing anyway.
"4am knows all my secrets."
And finally, he does not long to dream anymore. Reality is more potent, more forgiving, more blissful.
So maybe yeah, this is sort of about me. Surprise. And I honestly feel bad this blog has turned into my own bitter diary of my droopy sad-face tendencies. I really am a giddy little gal, just you wait and see.
The way the attitude of these posts have been I bet it sometimes is hard to believe I'm the happiest I've ever been. All that's really changed is that I am aware of my fingernails, my shackles, my spontaneous sad-face mentalities. So I preach them. I release them. Savor them even.
Just know that I'm okay and all I want is a bowl of loaded mashed potatoes right now.
Thank God Thanksgiving is coming up.
See you,
A&D.
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