Soma, Soma, Soma.
A name one can scream at the top of one's lungs. A name one can kiss or lick with the tip of one's tongue. A name that often gets stuck, like gum, on the tip of one's tongue.
Soma. Soma. Soma. Soma is young- but only because she has died so much. She has died so much. Soma is a genius. Although, she is not actually or factually smarter than the average person. She isn't really more intelligent than the rest of the populous- not necessarily, at least- she has just lived more. She has just lived more. And harder.
She believes in contradictions. She believes in opposites. Soma once made a covenant with a being that exists only in secret; she promised that she would never complain about things she could change so long as she were shown which situations she could control and which were beyond her jurisdiction. She attempts, on a daily basis, not to lament over brokenness that she can't fix. "Ach, don't lament the inevitable!," she often scolds.
There is a spirit within her that she would refer to as a soul- it is hungry, it has the most voracious appetite, only she doesn't know what it eats. She doesn't know what to feed it; so she doesn't. Her spirit starves, as she tries harder than hard to find it nourishment.
The turtle is her spiritual animal; she wishes she had a shell to suck her head into and make the rest of the world disappear or dissolve. Instead though she has found a way to numb the pain of her days via potions, liquids, and ointments illicit.
It's an act of balancing. She is always walking across a beam. Balancing. She is constantly stumbling or limping with her two feet planted less-than-firmly atop the milky galaxy's skin.
She knows three things for sure, she knows only the following for certain:
A tightrope. A teeter totter.
Soma is always walking the thin and fine line between death and life.
Soma is a precariously placed object. She is held together by something of a string so strong it could never be seen, so large that it is both invisible and indivisible.
It is a fact that she could collapse at any second of any minute in any hour of any day. However, nobody would ever guess this. Nobody would ever know it- it is not written on her face. Her face has mastered an expressionless expression; her face appears austere to strangers and genial to those within her circle. Her lips smile without having to cease frowning and vice versa. Soma is rarely what one would define "okay" to be, but nobody- not even the lords of telepathy- would ever be able to tell.
Soma is somewhat of a con-artist. She is cunning and clever. Although, she is assuredly no liar. Albeit, she is very skilled in the trade of evading the truth. Or, rather, what the majority have agreed truth to be.
Dishonest without actually telling a lie. Dishonest without really lying.
She spends the majority of her time convincing herself first, then others (next/second), that her situation (which is usually desperate, which is usually desolate) is not as bad as it seems.
She spends the majority of her time convincing her friends and her family that she is okay, that all is alright, that she and everything is and will be fine.
She spends the majority of her time convincing everyone, including herself, that contrary to the way it seems, that contrary to the way her voice cracks in a high-pitched key, threatening to give out and up all together in a fit of crying whenever she speaks, she is alright.
Soma is constantly trying to spin the story in a different direction completely both for her own sanity and to make others feel better. She absolutely hates being pitied for or worried after.
Actually, pity is a word that she frequently wishes were simply not in her vocabulary. Besides, she knows that nobody- absolutely nobody on earth- can make her feel better. She knows that the only person that can fix her situation is her.
Sure, maybe someone else can distract her or give her a few tools- some screws or a few bolts- but in the end, it is she who has to construct the hammer and begin building something out of nothing. A shelter or a home.
Rome wasn't built in a day, as they say, and building something out of nothing takes time. Foundations aren't built or repaired overnight.
Furthermore, during the time it takes her to invent or repair her structure she has to also, additionally, convince others that nothing is wrong. She has to create truth. She is obliged to pick a line that she likes and repeat it over and over again until she believes it to be true. She has to convince herself first, then others, that everything is alright. Soma is constantly trying to spin the story in a different direction completely.
Not a lie, really; more a game of dishonesty. Yes. A game of dishonesty that she is perpetually losing. She is losing, not necessarily because she is not skilled in the art of dishonesty or deception, yet in the end her goal- the way to win- is to deceive herself, and well, it's the nature of the beast for such an objective to render winners losers. For that matter, it renders losers losers too. A lose/lose situation.
She wonders then, why she keeps playing even though she inevitably knows the outcome, even though she knows that nothing can truly be done. She supposes it is her own stubbornness. No, that is not quite it. She supposes it's process. Yes. It is process. She remembers now, clearly.
It was maybe three or four years ago, when she stopped caring about the finished product and realized that life is life and life is living, therefore to care about the end result or the finished product would be to invest a lot of time in the ultimate, in the inevitable- which is death.
Therefore, she thought it'd be much more enjoyable to enjoy the process of things (life, living) and forget about the end results.
In a fixed world where nobody gets out alive and everybody dies- the end result, was, and is, to her- well, boring. But getting there, how one reaches the final destiny and further, what an individual does on the way there, i.e., which route one takes or doesn't take, which decision one makes or doesn't make. Now, that. That was something. That, that is interesting. To Soma. To her.
She wonders if it'll be heroin, methamphetamines, speed, being lonely, emotions, her mother dying before her, the thought of her dying before her mother, the war, anything political, men, another woman, perpetual poor heatlh, herself; she wonders if any of these things will be her demise. She's sure that the last one- "herself"- will naturally, and obviously, play a huge role in it. This surety and conviction without a question concerns and somewhat depresses her.
For, when she was "little," when she was but a girl, she remembers she thought that she'd die in a plane crash or for fear of heights; her phobia.
Moreover, she sometimes wondered late at night, too scared from a nightmare or a strange sound or something she saw previously on TV, to sleep, if it were possible to die from fear.
She thought it were. And, this seemed to her a terrible way to go. It also seemed to her, that it would be the only way she'd go. Now, well now she doesn't know.
She's still afraid of heights but other than that nothing really gets to her. She laughs at this as she ponders the irony in being afraid of heights yet getting high most every day and every night.
Regardless, she spends the majority of her time convincing her whole world that she is alright.
It's a constant struggle, an uphill battle, an endless fight. She knows that they say, Rome wasn't built in a day, yet she also knows that no matter whether or not castles have emperors, they can be destroyed in a matter of hours.
The disparity of duration in building and destroying.
Soma knows also, that it takes some people a whole lifetime to stand on their own two feet. She also knows that one can fall from even the tallest pillar, in just a matter of seconds. She also knows that defeat can happen almost instantly.
Regardless, nevertheless, she keeps trying. She keeps building then destroying, everything. She continues to build her world by day and burn it down every night, simultaneously attempting to convince anybody who is still listening that everything is alright- that everything is going to be alright.
Everything is going to be alright.
A name one can scream at the top of one's lungs. A name one can kiss or lick with the tip of one's tongue. A name that often gets stuck, like gum, on the tip of one's tongue.
Soma. Soma. Soma. Soma is young- but only because she has died so much. She has died so much. Soma is a genius. Although, she is not actually or factually smarter than the average person. She isn't really more intelligent than the rest of the populous- not necessarily, at least- she has just lived more. She has just lived more. And harder.
She believes in contradictions. She believes in opposites. Soma once made a covenant with a being that exists only in secret; she promised that she would never complain about things she could change so long as she were shown which situations she could control and which were beyond her jurisdiction. She attempts, on a daily basis, not to lament over brokenness that she can't fix. "Ach, don't lament the inevitable!," she often scolds.
There is a spirit within her that she would refer to as a soul- it is hungry, it has the most voracious appetite, only she doesn't know what it eats. She doesn't know what to feed it; so she doesn't. Her spirit starves, as she tries harder than hard to find it nourishment.
The turtle is her spiritual animal; she wishes she had a shell to suck her head into and make the rest of the world disappear or dissolve. Instead though she has found a way to numb the pain of her days via potions, liquids, and ointments illicit.
It's an act of balancing. She is always walking across a beam. Balancing. She is constantly stumbling or limping with her two feet planted less-than-firmly atop the milky galaxy's skin.
She knows three things for sure, she knows only the following for certain:
- firstly, that she doesn't know anything;
- secondly, that she is somebody's daughter;
- and lastly, that she is something's fodder.
A tightrope. A teeter totter.
Soma is always walking the thin and fine line between death and life.
Soma is a precariously placed object. She is held together by something of a string so strong it could never be seen, so large that it is both invisible and indivisible.
It is a fact that she could collapse at any second of any minute in any hour of any day. However, nobody would ever guess this. Nobody would ever know it- it is not written on her face. Her face has mastered an expressionless expression; her face appears austere to strangers and genial to those within her circle. Her lips smile without having to cease frowning and vice versa. Soma is rarely what one would define "okay" to be, but nobody- not even the lords of telepathy- would ever be able to tell.
Soma is somewhat of a con-artist. She is cunning and clever. Although, she is assuredly no liar. Albeit, she is very skilled in the trade of evading the truth. Or, rather, what the majority have agreed truth to be.
Dishonest without actually telling a lie. Dishonest without really lying.
She spends the majority of her time convincing herself first, then others (next/second), that her situation (which is usually desperate, which is usually desolate) is not as bad as it seems.
She spends the majority of her time convincing her friends and her family that she is okay, that all is alright, that she and everything is and will be fine.
She spends the majority of her time convincing everyone, including herself, that contrary to the way it seems, that contrary to the way her voice cracks in a high-pitched key, threatening to give out and up all together in a fit of crying whenever she speaks, she is alright.
Soma is constantly trying to spin the story in a different direction completely both for her own sanity and to make others feel better. She absolutely hates being pitied for or worried after.
Actually, pity is a word that she frequently wishes were simply not in her vocabulary. Besides, she knows that nobody- absolutely nobody on earth- can make her feel better. She knows that the only person that can fix her situation is her.
Sure, maybe someone else can distract her or give her a few tools- some screws or a few bolts- but in the end, it is she who has to construct the hammer and begin building something out of nothing. A shelter or a home.
Rome wasn't built in a day, as they say, and building something out of nothing takes time. Foundations aren't built or repaired overnight.
Furthermore, during the time it takes her to invent or repair her structure she has to also, additionally, convince others that nothing is wrong. She has to create truth. She is obliged to pick a line that she likes and repeat it over and over again until she believes it to be true. She has to convince herself first, then others, that everything is alright. Soma is constantly trying to spin the story in a different direction completely.
Not a lie, really; more a game of dishonesty. Yes. A game of dishonesty that she is perpetually losing. She is losing, not necessarily because she is not skilled in the art of dishonesty or deception, yet in the end her goal- the way to win- is to deceive herself, and well, it's the nature of the beast for such an objective to render winners losers. For that matter, it renders losers losers too. A lose/lose situation.
She wonders then, why she keeps playing even though she inevitably knows the outcome, even though she knows that nothing can truly be done. She supposes it is her own stubbornness. No, that is not quite it. She supposes it's process. Yes. It is process. She remembers now, clearly.
It was maybe three or four years ago, when she stopped caring about the finished product and realized that life is life and life is living, therefore to care about the end result or the finished product would be to invest a lot of time in the ultimate, in the inevitable- which is death.
Therefore, she thought it'd be much more enjoyable to enjoy the process of things (life, living) and forget about the end results.
In a fixed world where nobody gets out alive and everybody dies- the end result, was, and is, to her- well, boring. But getting there, how one reaches the final destiny and further, what an individual does on the way there, i.e., which route one takes or doesn't take, which decision one makes or doesn't make. Now, that. That was something. That, that is interesting. To Soma. To her.
She wonders if it'll be heroin, methamphetamines, speed, being lonely, emotions, her mother dying before her, the thought of her dying before her mother, the war, anything political, men, another woman, perpetual poor heatlh, herself; she wonders if any of these things will be her demise. She's sure that the last one- "herself"- will naturally, and obviously, play a huge role in it. This surety and conviction without a question concerns and somewhat depresses her.
For, when she was "little," when she was but a girl, she remembers she thought that she'd die in a plane crash or for fear of heights; her phobia.
Moreover, she sometimes wondered late at night, too scared from a nightmare or a strange sound or something she saw previously on TV, to sleep, if it were possible to die from fear.
She thought it were. And, this seemed to her a terrible way to go. It also seemed to her, that it would be the only way she'd go. Now, well now she doesn't know.
She's still afraid of heights but other than that nothing really gets to her. She laughs at this as she ponders the irony in being afraid of heights yet getting high most every day and every night.
Regardless, she spends the majority of her time convincing her whole world that she is alright.
It's a constant struggle, an uphill battle, an endless fight. She knows that they say, Rome wasn't built in a day, yet she also knows that no matter whether or not castles have emperors, they can be destroyed in a matter of hours.
The disparity of duration in building and destroying.
Soma knows also, that it takes some people a whole lifetime to stand on their own two feet. She also knows that one can fall from even the tallest pillar, in just a matter of seconds. She also knows that defeat can happen almost instantly.
Regardless, nevertheless, she keeps trying. She keeps building then destroying, everything. She continues to build her world by day and burn it down every night, simultaneously attempting to convince anybody who is still listening that everything is alright- that everything is going to be alright.
Everything is going to be alright.
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