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At Some Point I Went Psychotic
Yggdrasil is an immense mythical ash tree that connects the nine worlds in Norse mythology.
Like Odin, the Norse god, I hung from the tree to become an ambassador of truth and holiness even if alone was my only ticket there.
My mind was young enough then to undo every cancerous thought
and every ranchera was just a beautiful hyperbole to sing to.
Perder mi razon de vivir was just melodrama to croon to the gossiping stars.
I could feel pain inside.
I could cry.
But life was bound to move on.
I was 16 when I met the love of my first life, a Mexican girl,
and my pain was her most adventurous doll
to face the mud, the crashes in the Barbie Dream House car.
But I was still sane.
I wasn't neurotic.
I was just in love.
It was about the age of 17 that I told her that I loved her.
We had known each other nearly two years.
She cursed at me.
Maybe playing her game was Russian roulette for the psychi.
Maybe I was becoming neurotic then.
I kept believing that with my hair on fire from one of her explosions,
a tiny smile cracking or many nights' summoning,
she had to want me.
Then, there was the juggling of my affections
when she dropped me and picked me up to try to keep me in suspense 'till I was out of shape
and couldn't be juggled anymore.
So I ran to college and barely understood why the wind had to take me
as far from this girl as I could get.
I'm oblivious of if I was neurotic now.
I just couldn't focus on school.
I could hardly sleep
and visions of women kept flashing in my head.
I looked around,
and they were everywhere, yet I was caged and seeing them through bars.
That drove me neurotic.
I didn't care about my friends.
They always wanted me around.
I just wanted to mingle across the prison gate and drink monogamy even if it'd kill me.
And I started degenerating.
The sky wears the fairest blue.
The sea has a clone of my exact identity locked inside its leagues.
Diagnosis.
The cancerous thoughts had become my brain.
It was entirely cancer,
and it was metastasizing.
It needed a drug.
But my head hid inside itself like the dragon, bird and stags in Yggdrasil
to the extent that when I screamed,
I was only screaming in my coffin
in a graveyard of dead whose only beloved were also dead to not be there to watch them
cranky from knowing my voice in the catacombs.
Then, I had a second life.
I was in love again.
I was not even played with.
I was left in storage like an tiny stuffed puppy
that was grown away from.
But she opened the storage room,
I breathed her air
and that was enough to not wander off in search of a new puppeteer.
I had degenerated to the point of darkness,
to the point of terror films
of vengeful ghosts and Kreugers.
Now, I could lose my reason for living if I just happened to slip up
and bruise my knee on the pile of psychological tuff.
And only these magic beans could transport me to the other end of the rainbow.
If I planted them in the dirt of the incinerated forest, they could grow my cancerous thoughts into a grandiose illusion
I could live in until the earth was more habitable for my existence.
So that is what I do.
I'm suspended between earth and space in mountain sky
where you breath shallowly
and look at the bugs on the ground that are people you could come to admire
if the ash leaves never fell
and showed me black buds of a neurotic clown,
my very own metaphor to love and cherish.
It is my metaphor that is my own silver dollar girl
I hold in my fists as I "God damn the world!"
Like Odin, the Norse god, I hung from the tree to become an ambassador of truth and holiness even if alone was my only ticket there.
My mind was young enough then to undo every cancerous thought
and every ranchera was just a beautiful hyperbole to sing to.
Perder mi razon de vivir was just melodrama to croon to the gossiping stars.
I could feel pain inside.
I could cry.
But life was bound to move on.
I was 16 when I met the love of my first life, a Mexican girl,
and my pain was her most adventurous doll
to face the mud, the crashes in the Barbie Dream House car.
But I was still sane.
I wasn't neurotic.
I was just in love.
It was about the age of 17 that I told her that I loved her.
We had known each other nearly two years.
She cursed at me.
Maybe playing her game was Russian roulette for the psychi.
Maybe I was becoming neurotic then.
I kept believing that with my hair on fire from one of her explosions,
a tiny smile cracking or many nights' summoning,
she had to want me.
Then, there was the juggling of my affections
when she dropped me and picked me up to try to keep me in suspense 'till I was out of shape
and couldn't be juggled anymore.
So I ran to college and barely understood why the wind had to take me
as far from this girl as I could get.
I'm oblivious of if I was neurotic now.
I just couldn't focus on school.
I could hardly sleep
and visions of women kept flashing in my head.
I looked around,
and they were everywhere, yet I was caged and seeing them through bars.
That drove me neurotic.
I didn't care about my friends.
They always wanted me around.
I just wanted to mingle across the prison gate and drink monogamy even if it'd kill me.
And I started degenerating.
The sky wears the fairest blue.
The sea has a clone of my exact identity locked inside its leagues.
Diagnosis.
The cancerous thoughts had become my brain.
It was entirely cancer,
and it was metastasizing.
It needed a drug.
But my head hid inside itself like the dragon, bird and stags in Yggdrasil
to the extent that when I screamed,
I was only screaming in my coffin
in a graveyard of dead whose only beloved were also dead to not be there to watch them
cranky from knowing my voice in the catacombs.
Then, I had a second life.
I was in love again.
I was not even played with.
I was left in storage like an tiny stuffed puppy
that was grown away from.
But she opened the storage room,
I breathed her air
and that was enough to not wander off in search of a new puppeteer.
I had degenerated to the point of darkness,
to the point of terror films
of vengeful ghosts and Kreugers.
Now, I could lose my reason for living if I just happened to slip up
and bruise my knee on the pile of psychological tuff.
And only these magic beans could transport me to the other end of the rainbow.
If I planted them in the dirt of the incinerated forest, they could grow my cancerous thoughts into a grandiose illusion
I could live in until the earth was more habitable for my existence.
So that is what I do.
I'm suspended between earth and space in mountain sky
where you breath shallowly
and look at the bugs on the ground that are people you could come to admire
if the ash leaves never fell
and showed me black buds of a neurotic clown,
my very own metaphor to love and cherish.
It is my metaphor that is my own silver dollar girl
I hold in my fists as I "God damn the world!"
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