Porcelain Doll
an excerpt

My earliest memory is a nightmare. Traveling down the long, stark hallways of a hospital, I turned into a dark room. The lab was lit up with a green, wobbling glow so neon it made my head hurt. Shelves lined with unspeakable creatures in pickling jars dominated the room, shared only by a giant desk covered in scattered experiment notes. And a toilet. A giant toilet which my mother was being flushed down as the hot lump in my throat gave way to screams and cries... and I woke up in my crib.

The great Mr. Gump once said that it's funny what a person remembers. I can't speak for Forest, but what does it say about me that my earliest memory is a nightmare? That, in fact, I remember several nightmares more vividly than real events? And that these upside-down, odd-ball horror shows have occured nearly every night of my life? I could angle it in so many ways. Freud, Sidhartha, and Gaia could all toss in their two cents. But I've found in life, that things usually aren't so simple to just analyze from a far. Nor are they easy to figure out in the depths of emotional turmoil, really. It's words for me that have always brought about change. Two a.m., sitting in a frazzled, tear-drenched mess as I hash it out with a loved one - or they hash it out with me. Words make the emotional realm tangible. They make the chaos of the real world quantifiable.Words just make things make sense, even if they don't make sense.

I like words.

So, words are what I'll use. And maybe by the time I'm done telling my story, it'll all just... make sense. Even if I don't make sense.