dreidel
She slipped into a fight with the artist over the phone today, a fight that made so little sense to her that she almost couldn't believe that it was happening. Naturally she cried, as crying is her habit. It's difficult for her to let things go simply because the nine wing comes out in her at such moments. She can't stand the thought of an interaction ending on a low note so she tries to smooth out the rough edges, probably because she needs to feel she is at peace with those around her so that she can forget about the fact that she's not at peace with herself. She panics as conversations with unresolved conflicts draw to what she views as a premature close, paranoid that it's some kind of sign of a permanent and disharmonious dissolution that she's powerless to prevent. This reminds her that she isn't being graded on effort, and as a result she has no idea what to do. If only caring were enough, she laments, then everything in life would be perfect. And because she's a one, it simply must be perfect.
She works hard, harder than she needs to, because she doesn't know what else to do. Because of this habitual diligence learning to rest has been the hardest thing that she's ever had to learn to do. She's spent her adult life as a spinning top with unbelievable momentum. She's the fucking blue glass dreidel that she left behind in the top drawer of the dresser the hologram brought home as a surprise for her so that she'd have someplace to keep her clothes when she began to sleep over at his house. Remembering this she hates herself because she wants to remind the hologram of this historical fact because she knows that if she were to bring it to his attention the dresser would forever leave a bad taste in his mouth. He's sensitive like that. Sensitive just like her, which is why she ended up with a in a fight with the artist in the first damn place. She doesn't need to hate herself, though, since she'd never let such a stray thought manifest into action. A deep breath could replace self loathing. If only that were her habit.
She wants to keep writing, to keep thinking, to keep processing. Round and round she goes, just as she described. However, she must let herself move on as her treasure needs her.