Writingsmere

As I rapidly flow towards my destination within the river of which I have no control, I find myself alone and frightened. Is there a beginning or end to this journey? Will I have control at some point? Might there be a friendly branch waiting for my cold and lonely arm to grab onto it. I giving the branch some company and the branch giving me the comfort that I need so badly. Something from the earth....from a life in which I had safety and warmth...this lonely branch would be my friend. If only I could find the branch instead I am tossed under the current again swimming downstream in the rapids of destruction without consolation or companion.

The feelings of panic, hurt and envy consume my being, causing a violently physical reaction. Is there a way to end this pain? A reprieve from the malignancy that has taken over my daily life growing larger and more grotesque everyday.

I look around me everyone is moving. Feelings of solid encasement take over me....can anyone see me? Am I moving? Am I here? They look through me....ignorant of the pain that has burrowed itself deep within my soul....ambivalent of the consuming force that can grab one so lonely....not aware of the losing battle that is being fought within my bloody heart.

The smell of life pouring from the fleshy bodies consumes me....the heat being created around me yet I feel so cold. I move my body with vigor...yet my mind is not aware of it...my body begs me to belong to the mass...yet my mind is so detached that physicality stands no chance.

Am I smiling? do I look mean? what is my shell doing without me? how does it continue to function when my mind is dying and withering inside of me? does anyone sense the agnony that I am feeling? does anyone care? no....we are all alone.....I am in this for myself...it is me and only me for always and forever....no one or no thing can ever change that........

There once was a little girl named Manna who lived at the end of a long dirt road, in a large Victorian house that was as decrepit as its inhabitants. The dark blue paint was peeling away slowly from the frame of the body revealing the white decadence that had once adorned the structure. The framing was whiete with teh colorful remnants of a life that once was peeking out from behind the veil of molding starkness. Proper painting technique had not been considered when the house was painted last revelaing on frist glance the disregard that was breeding from within its womb.

The house had belonged to Manna's grandfather, Henry George Cannan III, a wealthy farmer, timber grower and entrepreneur. Henry had believed in hard work and the utilization of all the resources around him while respecting life and all that was in it. Henry had learned this from his father who had learned this from his father. Hard work and sweat paid off in the form of money and holdings for the family. This old house had been a symbol of all the work that was poured into these men's lives, only to fall apart.

"Manna!....Manna....get your butt in here!" the cries of her mother could be heard from far away. Manna often escaped to her grotto for reprieve from the cries of her mother only to be found by the manic voice again. The voice that worked its way into Manna's being clinging on like a parasitical nightmare to haunt her thoughts. The grotto overlooked the bluff and was Manna's favorite place to go for thinking, reading and more thinking. She was in search of the one book, the one idea or the one conclusion that would end the pain of the voices that echoed in her head.

Manna's legs could not carry her fast enough to the house; for her mother and she knew this with each heart pounding stride. "manna manna manna manna manna manna", her heart reminded her of the voice with each step.

Manna was a quiet girl...most people thought of her as ignorant because she chose never to say anything.