Phantasmagora #2

I'm a smoke machine behind a screen

what do you see?

Is it demons dancing devilish dreams?
Forgotten faces from maddening scenes?

It is the phantasmagora of your mind

what you see is what you'll find 

in me, and you, and you to me

I'm the geis of your crystal ball

Predicting your destiny

All mist and mirrors

I dreamed I missed my own birthday, and a month passed before I realized it. Everyone was shocked and subsequently upset at my lack of concern, and strove in convincing me that my neglect was appalling, and must be remedied immediately. I like birthdays, just not my own. Or, rather, there are aspects that I find tiring regarding my birthday, though I enjoy celebrating my friend's or family's birthdays. It is my little brother Sam's birthday this week - how he's grown since I left home. It's been almost 9 years since I last lived at home permanently, and he's moved from 3rd grade into his senior year of school. You can't tickle a senior in high school, or pick them up and swing them around as they giggle in glee. Senior boys don't giggle with glee much anymore. 

He's as tall as me, now, and I may be the shortest of the children before long. At least mother takes the cake on shortest in the family. There is some solace in that.
What I dislike about my own birthday is that it doesn't seem tailored to me, but tailored to a preconceived perception of what birthdays must entail. My mother asked me today what I wanted for Christmas. I said nothing, and she said, "you'll think of something by the time Christmas comes along." She loves giving, and can't understand that what I actually want, and have always wanted, was nothing. Au contraire, if I had my druthers, instead of receiving love on my birthday, I'd be sharing it. If there was a party, it would be my treat to all my friends. If there was a dinner, I'd cover all the expenses, just to gift everyone else. It seems such a strange thing, but this ideal is stapled into my psyche as the perfect birthday: the one where I bless everyone else who has suffered me a long time, and stuck with me through storm and sun.

It was a quiet day, today. The roommates were all busy, and it seemed no friends were available, which made for a day of rest. I ended up hanging out with friends anyway, but I did manage some rest first. This weekend has been quite fantastic. I got the rest I needed, hung out with friends, went to a wedding, ate delicious food, watched dazzling dancing, ran around outside, kicked around a soccer ball, treated a friend to dinner and discussed our lives, hopes, dreams, destinations. I got to read, write, drink tea, watch the purple-bellied clouds chase the sun out from on high, and a sherbet sunset in an apricot sky. I saw people I've missed, and talked to people I've not seen in some time. I wrote a letter, shared meals, listened to moving music, and talked with my mother and father (they both answered the phone at the same time. Quite cute) about the approaching seasons and times. I'm extraordinarily happy, so I wrote this melancholy poem stream-of-consciousness to represent my joy. It's quite terrible. I blame the macabre chapter of the book I was reading, but I know it isn't entirely to blame. Sometimes I write saddest poetry when at my most pleased. I understand myself better at these times. Or I'm hiding a sadness unknown to me. Probably both.

Lines in your hands reveal peach-pain webs
Spider of time, what anguish have weft
Patent divine, when choice is bereft
Our rivers of life, eddies and ebbs
Speak sister time, does love quite exist?
Palms gently shudder, an asp's poison lips
Fangs sinking deep, bleak destiny sips
Close nect'rine palm, a love hopeless fist
Faithless dear child, what melancholy this?
Confess empty silence, my peace have you cleft?
My only survival, now plainly theft
Sunder me now, from sentiment's kiss
Gently lay down this romance and mirth
Luckless I've found, nothing of worth