Pet Semetary

I am still haunted from the spectre of years past. Homesick from a place I’ve never been yet desire that one place. As I stare out along the rolling prairie, dust and tumbleweeds surround me and almost become indistinguishable from my very skin I am brought low and pause with the thought that the time and place which I desire so madly and yes romanticize almost completely will never be obtainable. Buried in sour ground of an almost infinite landfill of pain and broken memories I am continually asked to look forward, yet all I see is heaps of trash or space to expand this never ending series of pits. It would appear I’ve stumbled upon the grave of my goddess’s past and instead of being satisfied with its burial, I’ve thrown myself into the pit hoping to be covered up and become one with my ideals and (obviously) exaggerated fantasy of the reality I have so longed for. 

The Steven King novel posits the question that perhaps “dead is better”. I’m sure my goddess would agree. But for some miserable creature who looks at her and her experiences like primitive man looked when he first glimpsed fire, maybe the rotten version of what I want would be be preferable to nothing. Something like talking about how wonderful Christmas dinner was in 2012, 2013 and 2014. But being unable to eat or even grasp what it was at the time. 

I can hear you saying “get over it! You can’t change it and it didn’t and doesn’t concern you!” Trust me, if I could, I would. I beg for realease of this rotten muddy mental prison. On the one hand ignorance is bliss but on the other what would the outcome have been to stumble upon the knowledge of that better more passionate and emotional time. With all the romance and intamacy, energy and will. There is no substitute for youth, no matter how large or small. Taking two minutes of thought can see how that time stacks to this and what a cruel joke that the brass ring is behind glass unable for me to grasp it yet always in view so I know I’ll never have it. You’ll say “you have the end!” I intend to, but where is the fun? The emotion? The passion? Romance? Energy? Will? Lost with youth, buried in the damnable semetary with I standing at the edge trying to with all my might to will that time back into existence. 

It is not a matter of me tho. I cannot travel back in time nor drag my goddess there. It’s within her and her own struggle to find a way back (which she doesn’t, again I can’t argue with her reasons) to that state of being. Dancing is two way, and the more I dance alone to this romantic song the foolish I look. I should be content with the dusty road of monotone colour, dry and still, where I find myself occupying simultaneously both reluctantly and feverishly. On one hand I wouldn’t change a thing, on the other I try to better this plot of land where I sit. Is it futile? Am I my own mental version of the human centipede? Or will my efforts, my awkward dance moves entice something, anything resembling that other time and place I yearn for so badly?

Hopefully I am not buried here, by my hand or another. Who knows, maybe it will be myself rising from the pit, a bleak and rotten shell of what I used to be, unless that’s happened already. There is evidence to support both arguments it seems. The only response to the latter is that I completely agree with Mr. King’s gloriously simple statement that yes, dead is much better...