Title: Naive Conversation
by Craig from Cornwall | in writing, poetry, story-telling
It is 2 pm in the waiting room
you slide up to me
a young girl
frothing at the mouth
eager for knowledge
or the blood from my neck: I'm unsure,
"What's wrong?" you ask
with subtle tongue
and I imagine that you were a nun in a past life.
I explain that you couldn't possibly understand
you cannot possible comprehend
the pure intricacies of the human brain;
not unless you were a pastor in confession
or a student mere marks away from a psychiatric degree.
You shake your head like a wet dog
dealing me your winning hand
your coup de grâce
your firm no, I disagree,
explaining that people are simple
emotions are simple
just mechanisms
like small versions of cars, a mini or a three wheeler
just a series of cogs and leather belts
and perhaps I am suffering because my mechanics are working so hard
so hard and out of sync that they have worn through,
maybe that is the smell at the within the bridge of my nose
maybe the energy has created a spark, that spark has created a smoke
that has grown a forest and I can't see the clearing through all the trees causing disorientation,
maybe,
after the initial burning sensation
my cogs ground to a holt and all of my bolts grew cold
unused delving into an ice cold blue
freezing to the touch
an arctic circle inside my skull, dangerousy unexploreable.
I look at you
a small child desperately inadequate
and reply;
"It's complicated".
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