The truth according to Clem


And now, despite her best efforts and against all better judgement, she became that which she truly never thought she would – one of those whose confusion with life, at one time, a time rather recently ago filled her with undue superiority – and yet now, here she was, unsure of life, not knowing where to go or who to be. The once linear path now wound itself tight around her in ever constricting spools of wonder as the lack of direction, scissor blade to balloon string, the sound of sharp pulling overwhelmed and threatened to break her. Not just the ribboned fray of flimsy plastic masquerading, but her whole self.

On the brink of total collapse, she straddled the cavern between confidence,  its blithe disregard for the multitude ways of her demise, and the seeming truth of her eventual downfall through a menagerie collection of failings so consistent they could mean nothing less than utter devolution. Nothing left to ask but where is she and how is it possible to be where she is while still pretending to those outside her that she exists.

A mask, oblong and tall sticks from the ground in unwavering sturdiness. Through the holes meant for eyes and mouth it beckons her to interact with the world. But she is barred. Held back in mental restraint by plethora disorders and distinctions and at ten her mother said she worried she could be a sociopath. An earlier time than google the dictionary explained. You suck the fun out of the room. Oh that’s just the truth according to Clem. You’re being dramatic.

But surely if they were behind the mask unable to form their face into its carved back, kept at a distance of at minimum four feet, counting in four different languages the time it takes to be understood – they would struggle too. They would lose their way. Possibly collapse.


©2018 Clementine Yost
June 25, 2018

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