I suppose a wild skew into incongruity is my only hope right now. I once named an ecritter Miss Chatelaine, and the closest thing I've ever found to explain how that fits the image in my mind is Lady Gaga's cheerio ballerina in Marry The Night. The only difference between me and her is that I didn't invent my truth to fill in any holes. That doesn't mean I can't still express myself artistically.
Back to right now- the scraping out of my soul like I'm scraping seeds out of a melon or a squash. Maybe a butternut squash because it's been kind of hard and the seeds are all sticky, and the knife is already gummed up with the waxy stuff they put on the squashes. I imagine when I'm done with this I'll look like something out of a horror film and will need to take a vacation. Or at least a shower. I'm actually trying to get showers, so maybe when I'm done I can put on a big hat and giant sunglasses and sit out on my deck imagining I've flown off to a villa in France. Maybe I'll pretend my chocolate chips are a Madeline truffle while I sip Chateau Margaux out of my Aquafina bottle.
Those of us who know what this means- imagine aspienado coming out of years of full trauma shutdown figuring out how to 'recondition' one's self for not just survival, but winning the game. Like, maybe I reprogrammed the phone.