Nexus of a Crisis

No one trains us in the words to express how we feel, to face that thing which matters most - a breakdown in the face of storms, because we don't know how to say what we mean. Keeping it all bottled in, with no way of showing what we want, it drags itself up from our chest and threatens to spill over in wads of blue and green and drip across the floor until it washes over us all. And then we're forced to deal with the fallout. But no one taught us how to do that either.

All we are is babies in swaddling, with no way out, no way forward, and a hazard of choking on the things which don't want to be said, but must. And I, I'm the map that can't be read, all dead ends and faded lines. Indecipherable. To date, no one has had the chance to give it a good shot, no one has even tried. No one wants to know. Because in the face of it all,they're all more concerned about the buildings on the streets which threaten to cut off their own oxygen supply than they are worried about how I might be dealing with being lost and alone and illegible, slowly fading from the view of everyone. Or almost everyone. There is the one who decided to see me. The one whose smile made me grin like I was sitting on a cloud, smoking a pipe which plastered it upon my face. I might be fading, but to her, I'm slowly coming into focus. And if that's not terrifying then I don't know what is. But we all have our time, don't we? Some day or another, someone finds out all the we are, pulling those secret words from the depths of our larynx and letting us plaster the walls with them.