by Cydney Chadwick
We believe there might be something wrong with us or that we have gone crazy. We clandestinely write pop screenplays hoping to someday become famous directors of blockbusters, simultaneously study difficult tracts on postmodern culture. We imagine being married, and at the same time insist we do not enjoy the company of men and fantasize about a same-sex experience. Of course we wish to remain married though we spend most of our spare time pursuing single women. We continually dream of shedding weight while we eat an entire medium pizza at one sitting. We believe we show the world how mature and responsible we are, but while driving in our cars with the windows rolled tightly we blast music with lyrics of adolescent angst and feel empathy. We enjoy the comfort of stuffed animals, but when friends come to visit hide them away, or if we forget to do this, say they belong to nieces and nephews. We think we believe in things, have convictions and opinions, but cannot always be certain of what they are. We often feel stupid--or widly intelligent. We suspect we are disintegrating so we redouble our efforts to appear stable and competent.
Today is Monday. We put one foot in front of the other, raise our coffee mugs to our lips. Tick the clock goes. That word has always made me nervous. We know we have names, identities, personas, but we're confused and can't recall what they are. To muster courage we remind ourselves to follow our narratives, those horizontal lines supposed to lead somewhere.