But a speck

And as it weaved its way in, slowly, the entire organism began to change with it. Funny, that, since it was such a minute, dustlike speck (nearly eliminated by a mad Pledging incident) and yet it, insidious, slunk through a small pore in the man's left earlobe he had unbeknownst left exposed.

The speck, god(?) bless its soul(?), was not quiet as one would expect from a speck. It cried out like King from the pulpit; something about seeing the other side and a mountaintop or somesuch thing, witness organelles reported in the same breath as their complaints over being roused from a deep, deep sleep.

The invader kept going with an aim toward the heart of him, pushing past the mucus and the complacency, until it reached its goal; and by then, it had made such a hullabaloo the being's bits all had convened there, waiting to hear what it had to say.

"THIS," the speck bellowed, "IS NOT HOW THINGS SHOULD BE! Look there, at the heart -- the alpha and omega of the man -- that is simply beating. Listen. Rhythmic. Does it EVERY DAY, the SAME."

They listened. The left ventricle peered at its peer who had provided it with a regular stream of blood for quite a few years. "It appears to be working just as it should," it said, and the speck sighed a sigh that shook the heart to beat a little stronger.

"WHOA," the ventricle cried. "That felt...ALIVE."

"Yes," the speck said. "You might not SEE what I mean, but now you FEEL it. The wrongs, the rights, the sidewayses, the all; no matter WHAT you THINK should be happening, the only way to FEEL the difference is to MAKE it happen."

That's when the brain piped in, tizzied till near scrambled. "HOLD everything," it demanded from above (since its migration toward the heart could kill the man).

"That would be physically impossible," the speck said. "I am but a speck."

"Have you never heard of metaphor?" the brain chided. "But of course not. You are not responsible for every function of this body. You have no idea the weight of running a business like this."

"Responsible. Phhhh," the speck puffed. "How do you run the heart?"

"I make it beat, of course."

"Yes, but HOW? Describe the process."

"Er, well, it just sort of, um, it's subconscious," said the brain.

"EXACTLY," replied the speck. "WHERE is the AGENCY? WHERE is the WILL? I know you and you alone are responsible for those two functions."

The heart suddenly beat a tad stronger. "The brain has forgotten me," it said. "I've always said if we work together, we could do GREAT (the ventricle almost passed out from pleasure with the enunciation of GREAT) things. But the brain is always so BUSY with that so-called 'paperwork,' it silences me and tells me I am foolish."

"I see now," the speck said, quieter, as if in contemplation. If it could rub its chin -- if it had a chin -- it would. "It's a bureaucratic breakdown. Funny;" the speck continued, "how the microcosm of the human body reflects the macrocosm of human society."

And it's not going to stop

Oh, Aimee Mann. But will it stop even if we do wise up? Can't say that I'm sure. Seems lately the wiser I get, the worse I fare. Weaving in and out of veritable strangers' lives; meeting them, as I always seem to inadvertently do (or perhaps I inspire it), at a fall-apart crossroads and they crash into me. Then, realizing what they've done, they pick up and run.

"I've said too much."

Well, no, because now, in your silence, there isn't enough. Sometimes.

The alternative reaction is that they cling. Hard. And then I run. So regardless, someone is always out of breath, and not in the good way. I'm still hoping for the day when I bump into someone parallel fashion and we happen to lean on each other for a while, standing straight up, but just providing some momentary and much-needed rest before projecting out into the world again.

Sometimes I just wish it'd all quiet down. And by it I primarily mean my mind, full of its own endless banter and chewed-up distortions of everything that's ever  been said to me or around me throughout my entire life.

Liquid quiet: the one where your heart doesn't palpitate out of your chest so hard that you have to meditate, desperately, just to stop shaking. And there is no peace, nor perhaps even meditation, in desperation. I wish I could begin my days with a sense of normalcy rather than having to claw and spit up to a place where I can function without shaking straight onto the floor.

And do you have any idea what a wrench panic throws into eyeliner application? Seriously, ladies. Can I get a "WHAT"?

(Sorry--won't do that again. [Maybe.])

So off I go into another week of creating and writing other people's lives, which then makes up my life, which then becomes again, not my own, but a sort of meta-life. It's both a privilege and a source of utter, full exhaustion.

But I will not lose hope.