It's No Easier

Nine green glass portraits of Jesus and his mother are hot glued to tin foil and then mounted to a blue wooded cross. Forgive me, Father, for I have. . . A box of Sharpie markers, fine tips and broad tips, every color of the pride rainbow (redorangeyellowgreenbluepurple; non-stop, all one word, all six colors become one unified idea) and of the real rainbow (ROY G. BIV; Red, Orange, Yellow, Green, Blue, Indigo and Violet) and even some colors which are not found naturally. A blue Sony cybershot digital camera, whose charger hanges from it like a sick eletrical vine growing. At night I watch and re-watch my life as if it is being veiwed through the little, key hole, window of my camera. Play and re-play the small clips of video and pictures I took, thinking as I fall to sleep that I might escape this pattern of pointless self-tourture if I move the camera out of sight. I never do, because as much as it hurts to hold on, I can't even begin to imagine EVER letting go! A tiny picture of Bellerina in green velvet and almost translucent fairy wings, smiling with an impish glee. A ratty black terry cloth wrist band with three metal stars painted red. Past star, present star, oh and, yes, future star. . . I have a bruise on the palm of my left hand, right under my pointer finger, small and bright pinkish-red. I have a slightly purple-y one that seems more under the skin than most bruises on the tip of my nose, I can help but wonder if it will bloom darker as the days go.
Honestly, can I speak honestly for a moment? Is honestly something I am capable of at all? Can I be, when I am not sure if I was ever honest to myself?
How about, as honestly as I am able to speak?
I don't know who I am any more. I don't know the last time I did. I haven't slept in days, the burning dryness of my eyes and the disorienting glare over everything is almost comforting. One of the few things that seems an awful lot like going home. When everyone knows home no longer exist, home is no longer an option. I can't sleep because she came in to visit arround Christmas time and ever since she left my dreams are alive again. Dreams where I live a life in which there was no storm, nothing has changed other than the slow churning of life and I HATE to wake up because I lose my breath again having to realize I am 83 miles from my torn and bleeding life. 83 miles and a life time.