Recognition

Recognition


Autumn worries over fated possibility, sources of identity.
“I could be like her, lose the game, empty years defeated.
Worse, I could be like him.
I look like him.  That’s got to be DNA, my inheritance.
He wasn’t always like, you know, he is, mad in his need
for power.  Maybe he started so scared of his weakness, of
vulnerability, that he had to be in control.  Whatever, wasn’t
he once upon a time just some little kid trying to work it all out?
Wasn’t she a dynamo waiting for her moment to be a star?
Do I get to choose?  Do I get to figure out how to be me, how
to get what turns me on, you know, self-determination?  Focus
the energy in the right time, place, intensity, and all I wish for
is mine?  Did he want to be beast breaking beauty?  Did she
want to be broken, betrayed, lost?  They had, you know,
people, parents, teachers, family backing them, steering
them, goading motivation.  Maybe it was misguidance.
I’ve escaped that trap.  I’ve got, you know, you, not stupid
people with narrow mind sets.”
I am mesmerized by ping of recognition, being seen,
belonging.
Autumn wants to believe she has it in her to be the worst
of participants in this human world.  She thinks because
the people who made her have deep, dark histories, she
has that inborn potential.  She is very young, limited in
experiences even though she has known much more than
most her age.  She has no true idea , not the necessary
length of view for true perspective, of what evil exists.
“You have your own choices, Autumn.  You have the advantage
of watching, reflecting on, the choices and outcomes of
those close to you.  You are a further evolving step beyond,
not limited by their images.  You could befriend an
impossibility.  You could see a long dead  monster’s
humanity.  You are amazingly different from all those
stupid, crazy, unbearable people.  Why would you want
to put your mental time to ruminating in such worries?
How do thoughts of wrong potentialities benefit, give
pleasure, make anything better?”
I am clearly questioning, seeking understanding, not
making judgment or sermon.
“No, yeah, you’re right.  History’s just stories with lessons.
No point in repeating what have proven obvious mistakes.”
There is a silent edge of fear that haunts her agreement.
Where is her role model of can do sanity?  The best I can
model is stoic escapism.  At least we have this safe escape
we share.  She owns this special space, haven from feral
furies, harsh swift judgment, numbing punishment.
Her energy is low, held down in debilitating ideas of
twisted fate.  Has my darkness infected her with morose
fantasy?  Has her ever more distant mother, Kathy the
defeated damsel, reached a further point of no return?
Is this just a particularly oppressive day, week, transition?
“Autumn, what are you really afraid about? Has an omen,
an incident, threats or epithets cast you down?  You feel so
sad today.  I feel it with you.  I feel strong desire to touch
that core of sadness, hold it close, dance a transformation.
I want to feed on your binding sadness and set you free.”
I am no good at being expressive.  For so endlessly long
my experience has given me practice in self-control,
hidden denial of a self to express.  My dialogs have been
for the most part internal monologues devoid of the need
for projection to external audience.
This is important.  I have important messages to impart,
emotions and ideas to share, perhaps for the very first
time in all the time I have known.
“Don’t worry, Ellie.  I’m not drowning in any deep end.
Yeah, I’m scared.  Yeah, I’m sad that there’s so damn much
crap to be sad about.
You’re right, you know, so many people ...
I guess you would know, better than me.  You’ve
known so much longer than I’ve even been.  I, you
know, I look at you as younger.  I know it’s been so
long; you’ve been through so much more.
Those freaks out there, we don’t have to care about
what they say or how messed up their lives are.
We are who we are, without their permission or
agreement.  They’re not in our league.”