I can't help you with your mind.
There is a misfortune with your mind, at present. Perhaps forever. At least up until today. As you have described, it is out to get you and, thus, lashes out at everyone and thing around you. Likening yourself to a dirty sock is both humorous and saddening. I can't imagine the torture of it.
What would you have to offer someone if they told you that they have a hard time telling the truth, controlling their anger, and sharing who they are with the world?
My guess would be: Not much.
Perhaps if you cared about them like a family member, you would have dinner with them from time to time, taking much of what they say with a pound of salt while pushing your potatoes around on your plate. You would try concentrating on the taste of the food, the patterns of the person's shirt, the clouds that culminate and threaten to rain in their eyes.
But you couldn't much listen to them, now could you?
Not really, anyway.
You would hear stories that never happened, or re-tellings of stories that have entirely changed, or proclamations of feelings that are, more than likely, just the day's form of attempted manipulation: The morning's daily truth.
Eventually, you would wonder: Who is this person sitting across from me?
And wonder, not so much why they are there, but rather,
why you are.
And just as they are midstream of what will one day be revealed as a whopper of a tale, you would simply
put down your fork
dot each corner of your mouth with a napkin
before placing it gently
on your plate
push your chair back
and
distractedly
(distracted by the excitement of life and of love and of truth and of struggle)
stand up
looking out to the furthest reach of the room
and leave.
I can't help you with your mind, dear member of my proverbial family.
And while I have compassion for the torment of your mind
even in this routine hour
the babble of lies
has become
a bore.
Be well; be loved,
k.
(image: Saturno Buttò, Red Skull)
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