There is a time and place for words I am told. A time and place for emotions. A time and place for truths and lies. A time and place for being myself.
And yet, despite how many times I have been admonished, despite everything I have been taught, I find myself unable to conform fully to these rules of living. Fully, I say because my rebellions must be few and far, and mostly secret. Living, I say because they are not the rules for life, just rules to live it.
I find myself wondering how I look, while crying. I find myself wondering what I would eat the next hour, while visiting someone at the hospital. I find myself wondering whether that woman ever realized pink did not suit her, while giving a test. I find myself wondering whether I could go check on my hair, while in the middle of a passionate rant.
My thoughts are inappropriate. Ill-timed. Sometimes I think about boys and risque novels while lying in bed stroking my mother’s hair, and I would wonder whether my thoughts are obvious to her because of that point of contact.
None of these thoughts are particularly original I imagine. But then again, maybe the fact that they stand out in my thoughts makes them original?
I like thinking in a convoluted manner. I like stretching things out and going round and round in circles. It fascinates me. And even more, I like it when people go round those circles with me.
I like making up sentences that only barely, disjointedly, make sense to me, and are probably a mess of tangles to anyone else.
And more than anything else, I like talking to myself. I like arguing endlessly with myself, because really, who better to argue with after all?
I wonder then, whether all this makes me a little insane. And if, there is a time and place for me.