Frankenstein
What a vivacious creature
All too often now I think of my creator, and all too often lately I feel my creator crafted me using melancholic thread.
They crafted me using the rib of a former war veteran, and the brain of a neglected child. The expressions of a mime; the tactlessness of a man.
And I think if I was created, it’s not Victor Frankenstein who birthed me, but Mary Shelley.
And I never did have enough vigor for life to dig myself all the way out of the hole I was crafted in. I never was much of a vivacious creature. Or, yes, I was - still am. But it’s the mime expressions I’ve been so graciously afforded by Shelley. The beauty of being crafted by a woman. The curse of being tactless like a man. In that, I can’t help but love, and can’t help but let all that love slip through my fingers like water through a river with miniscule cracks. Very slowly, but very surely. Undeniably, even. It’s always been a little too hard for me to hold on to anything for too long. Too scared to lose something that I end up just letting it go. As long as it’s all on my terms. Can’t end up with a broken heart. If that’s possible; I don’t know that I have much of one left. If I do, I definitely don’t give it. So I guess I’d never know.
Do you think I was chosen to be the next human made from God’s drawing board?
Do you think my spirit was put in mom’s womb at that specific time on purpose?
Do you think she pushed me out at 5:27am because a spirit premeditated it?
I wonder, was I thrown here with a purpose, or no purpose? I used to think I was put on this earth to write. Now I’m thinking I was just put on this earth, and I write to cope with it. I only really do write when I’m coping. And unless I’m quoting Dostoevsky’s “I exist!” Then I’m never really writing about the sun. I am good at it, though. Writing. Do you think Shelley crafted me as this multi - faceted creature? Or did I just turn out that way from circumstance? Who knows. But “I exist!” So, I breathe. And I breathe so I think. And since I can’t stop thinking, I write. Man oh man, Shelley and her melancholic thread back at it again.
