Unspoken Agendas

Katrina

Aircrafts need airport sequence managers so that their flights are not departing at the same time, intertwined, crashing and colliding before even arriving near destination. My brain, that area of the body where thought arrivals and departures happen, needs assistance. When there was creation of thy self, there was no inclusion of that airway manager when she happened. This should have been implemented within the human being constitution under: emotion management. That lurching, gnawing, son-of-a-knot, heart throbbing, wound gushing, giddy, erratic, scatterbrained feeling is in need of a generator. The body needs compensation during those moments of rational brain fleet. Neurons are simply firing non-consensual miscalculated messages to some part of the body that can definitely not handle the current situation. A conquest. You know the kind of guerrilla warfare, where there has been a rigorous raid or infraction? It completely seizes every increment of the body. I did not sign this barbaric ordeal where explosions of gushy mist that no one can see and only you have felt reverberate on every wall, in every cavity, city, town and village of your heart. Desire? My brain, I would like to donate it to science or give it away with no further delay. Insanity. This is not love. It is theft of an organ that I did not know was alive nor conscious, until her. My feelings revive emotions that I did not know I could have and that seem quite carelessly paradoxical. I want to gently bloodshed parts of my mind. Perhaps she has fallen through the cracks of my organ of character and compassion and has also been sentenced to life imprisonment in there. Redundant, misbehaved, absurdist, Ignorant voices in my mind; they are luscious.There must have been a total miscarriage of my own brain that I was made unaware of. If this is love, then I have completed my term on earth. It hurts and I adore the burn. I am not playing this one-sided, heinous crime on my own person. Yes. I wake up and she has already captivated my thought processing. Another day in the life of the unhinged, the psyched-out. She is like, some form of sweet and bitter reminder that both of my oars are not in the water, not in gear. I: the completely unbalanced being while she is so incredibly—just, an amalgam of proportion and parity. I am not—I cannot love her. God, I want you. Does the mind have to be so unequivocally complex, setting ablaze turbulences constantly? She has overthrown the status quo, all systems are defeated and I am the only blacksmith on duty. I cannot, for so many reasons—devour me—want this.

I decided to clear thy mind from thy predominant thought: her. Wellington street, there should be a bar, some place to meander my shy way through the spaces between lost souls, to lose myself to dance and fleet the thought of her existence. Stomping-to-the-beat feet and a sly bit of inebriated happiness weighted down the place that I saw a couple of blocks down the road. I canon-ball in. I decide to talk to a complete stranger. I let her lead the way. Alcohol and feelings are not a picture-perfect cocktail. I sat down with a woman who poured her wounded and bruised conscience out to me. Just like that, delivering a package that I did not order, but enjoyed receiving nonetheless, as grim as that may appear. ‘‘SHE is a heart breaker!’’ were the words of madam, while grabbing her left breast to point out agony. What a scam. Now I am feeling, she is feeling, half-sobbing, all because of two people who pulled at our hearts. I decide to rev the engines of my own despair and share the hidden agenda of my heart. We are both so filled with emotion that I am half-yelping, my hands are speaking their own languages as they liberate themselves like the conductor of an orchestra, my heart is thudding, her fist pounds on the table to the beat of the discussion, her laughter is a mixture of bewilderment and edgy-excitement. I come to a halt when she pronounces the name, ‘‘Katrina’’. I look severely into the depths of her eyes and as song-ridden as that name was to the ear, I think to myself that it is a grand coincidence that the person that pulled a fast one on my thoughts, heart, mind, body and everything in between, up and under, was also named Katrina. ‘‘Oh, those Katrina’s, right?’’, I say to her in the most oddball tone I could have ever fished out of myself. We keep speaking, slower, with caution and delicacy, as if both of us were thinking the same irrational thought, ‘‘Katrina, who?’’, we both bolted out. She turned her head slightly while whispering her last name. I think my soul tapped-out or went bankrupt at that moment--something congruent to that--my heart withered out of my chest and died loudly and harshly on the table in front of said stranger sharing heartbreak, failed emotions, twin heart-dictatorship complications and inner disputes. Not so much of a stranger.  We did not bandwagon, stranger and I. Our relationship was that of Iran and Israel. We cut off all ties. Enjoy the rest of your life, case: closed.

Stupid, crazy, cracked-up, sappy, love.

Katrina, you must be one hell of a heartbreaker.

Heartbreaker.