Critical Chameleon

by Amy Johnson

The last time she looked into the mirror without the sigh of scattered flashes of the weight of life. What does it mean to find essence. Of life, dreams, the place. A place. What is the place. Is it in your fire? Passion and connection to them. Who is them..... Family, the boy, or people who also have their own mask. Chameleons of false honor and roles. Or is it the inside where you find it. What is it..... A nirvana of self, is it the mirror suddenly reflecting light from your stoic self. Where are you.... Does she shine if no one feels the sun?Always keeping one foot into something great, beautiful and hopeful. The other foot, the one that would always forget how to walk, how to understand that sometimes it just might be ok to be a dreamer. The everlong drifter. The critical chameleon in her was transparent. Never seen but always of substance. Perpetual motion in perception is where she sought her solace. Ideologies of love and connection, were they something that truly didn't exist, or was she unable to feel a union of existence in humanity on a level of beauty and validation.She cringed at the thought of life as a box where words and expected actions were needed to fit inside to gain a sense of self. Is validation something that she sought from the faces, the noise of the world who all steps over oneself only to step onto another. The movement of life always seems too fast, yet if she didn't stay in the lane, the animal of self would trample her down within the confines of thought. Is there someone here, is there a heart that matches mine. Are all these masses of energy trapped inside this stretched and scarred skin of people all just false ideals and hopeless souls. What is the soul. Where is her match. These are not questions because there is no answers. The critical chameleon in her doesn't tie down to false standards of the unity of spirit. Free spirit is where she sought refuge. Denying the intuitive ball, pain of not belonging to the heart of another. The only substance in life was the schematic destruction of light through the end of a needle. The lips on a bottle. The fixation of pharmaceutical madness. It was a beautiful disaster of pseudo-enlightening. The introduction of the monster of new pain. She now knew the critical chameleon was no longer the mix of skeptical love and profound longing. She now found her place. This place on her journey landed her in slowly shredding up her passion while building her destruction. Only she saw this as her path to the ultimate retribution. To fly with the dragonflies to the peak where the very breath of fire can be her salvation. The fire surrounds her with warmth... And that warmth and soulful spirit was possible through the chemicals of madness. Not through the spirit of another. There is no other critical chameleon in this world waiting to meet her. Her colors were meant to stay translucent. No one held the colors to her soul. It was true what the wheel of motion in her mind plagued her with. She was the only one on this journey. She loved this place of rest on her path. Independent destruction that felt so great. No longer a seeker of her color on the prism of her place in others. It was perfect. She had found it was herself who held the key to her door.I'm done editing for today. This part is yucky. :( more tomorrow maybe. She felt it was not the moments or life's battles that shape the soul. The fire and air that torch of emotions and heart. The torrid love affair with the madman was where she found the fuzzy feeling of retribution. The cleansing of her thinking. Always moving on the path...... The chemical madness in the warm burning of energy that was the shock to the system that never worked for her. She starting building her mountain of consciousness atop a foundation of decaying acidic death. The insanity of false wholeness mixed in with suicidal enlightening. She knew love for the first time. However, she would lie down at night with the shadows, the monsters, the clarity of pain so real that she was torn out of her vision of what her journey was. It wasn't a walk of a seeker who felt that the mysticism of the world was for her to allow to consume her and in turn breathe out her own fire of hope. It in fact had been her running from the very essence of her feelings. The feelings of knowing that she can't find anyone to teach her how to feel a part of them. A part of unity and love. The chemical madman was infact another way for her to use grandiosities instead of reality. Drugs, a substance that possesses the qualities of her own prison didn't not warrant a term of endearment. One night, in the darkest hour where it is so quiet that she could imagine hearing her heart beat she came up with her grandest of insane to you, yet a beautiful yo her realization. The ultimate profession of life would be to commit the most perfect statements of permancy. There was no one who understands her path of rainbows sweating blood and rain that felt like daggers, the trees that would haunt her journey. It was time her path took her to the place she needed to be. No longer breathing. So she started this plan- a profession of tormented loneliness. She has reached her cross to bare. The torrid of a false journey of selfdiscovery has eclipsed to a point of death at her own will seems like the ultimate act of control. The control she sought her entire life was not about where she fit in. Not about a journey of losing the critical chameleon that plagued her spirit. Inflatatrated every fiber of her being, everyday. She carried with her the desire to find a purpose. A harmony of her desires and actions. This desire of purpose of feeling validated was destroying her. With the madness of addiction pulsing through her veins like a deranged madwoman. The thoughts were exploding with such a disorganization. So much confusion swirling around. She looked in the mirror and the screams in her ears felt like she was beyond recall and the pain felt like she was drowning in the tears. Picturing every teardrop was exploding in her lungs. Can't breathe. Choking. The mirror doesn't lie. Looking at the eyes of spawn. Spawn! the name she was called as a teen because she was so ugly that friendship consisted of being the crying clown. Crying inside. Fucking boys so she could be a part of something anything. Loser! Knowing that there was nothing but a pit of pain and ugliness inside that is black and hard and with each beautiful sick dose of pharmaceutical madness it would harden and attach like a leach onto the black rock of soul. Is the soul real? She thought the soul is a sick ideological term to remind sick spawn losers that there is no place in the world for them. The mirror was the nightmare with eyes wide open. The scabs. Pick at the pain. Make spawn ugly. Hit the mirror destroy the image that overpowers anything that she once held as good. Good! What a false belief. She doesn't have a journey. The hope she carried. The tiny light inside was unfounded. Unloved. There was no one on this universe that understands. That touches the soul. But the soul doesn't exist. It's a place for the black rock of pharmaceutical madness. Drugs. Spawn. Loser. Unloved. Good. Madness. Pain. The mirror. The mirror speaks in silence that is screams that is so loud it breaks her so silent it's the madness but its the mirror or maybe the scars on her the self inflicted wounds talk now. She thinks that its time to take more. Melt into the ground and start the plan. The plan of ultimate power over stopping the people who are now inside of her ripping up her insides and making her choke on the screams. Face numb and pounding so hard her temples were drumming the most torturous pain that she thinks that she may be dead. This must be what it means to live your hell on earth. Nothing left to do. Failed at her beautiful plan of permanent placement into no longer walking on a journey of false searching for retribution. There isn't a path. There isn't a dream in the clouds that floated into the light of beauty. See the disaster of the mind is where she finds the devil of deceit. Laying on the cold floor that feels like the icy nerves of a hardened soul. The journey of a critical chameleon does not hold the translucent color of not seeing her. It means black. Death of a spirit that always yearned for somewhere to call home. She lay on that floor and cried. She was scared of the tears. The taste of salt that felt like the blood of her heart that was dead and bleeding out onto the world that was never a place she was meant to be. She cried for the little girl who thought there was a beauty in the journey. The little girl who never felt like she fit into her skin. Always doubting and questioning why no one In the world validated her. Why couldn't someone look at her. See the wretched pain inside her eyes. Those eyes that were so scared to look at another eyes. The eyes of fear and hurt. Why was there no one to tell her that there is a purpose to the journey. That the next step- no matter how heavy it felt was worth it because there is a destination. No one saw her eyes. She stood up. Unsure of how long she laid in her own pain on the cold floor of desperation. The mirror. The reflection of ugly miserable pain, pain so overwhelming that she shudders at the sight of the disgusting wretched black rock of nothingness she is. Should she look again. Should she stare back into the eyes of the madness. Should she. No. She should write. She should let the words become her.She has a pen. She has a needle. The needle talks to her. She is in love with that needle. The pain of the madness has become her. There is a knock on the door. The beauty of the moment that while in it she doesn't see the light of the most powerful day. The reckoning of the soul. The soul that split and was given to her daughter. The child who walks as if she has angels wings guiding the little girl while her mother fights for her soul for salvation. The only thing in the world that shows light and love. She is unable to love the angel on earth. She is only able to look from afar at the essence of goodness that she cannot feel. The presence in itself of her angel of laughter. She knows it exists through watching curiously. She knows that there has to be a place. A person. A light that can help her so in turn she can help this little girl become another critical chameleon. So the knock on the door. Does she choose the dark or find her feet to walk again. She hears laughter. And she picks up the pen. She finds a voice through the writing. The beauty in words. She in that moment decided that even if the journey was in solitude it was hers to travel. The scars. The gaping open wounds hurt. They tore through her like razors on her heart. The pain of realizing that the path she was on is full of holes and thorns and that it would be a path she walks alone. The little girl who the angels walk with was her student. Her way to teach where not to go. But the child was not her savior. Was not put into the critical chameleons life to heal the wounds that ate at her. The girl that had the eyes of perfection and the laugh of sweet beauty was a miracle of learning. There lays this child who was open to receive love in the ways she only hears about in a mythological sense. But the presence of the angels child meant that love was possible so long as she replaced her beloved needle of pharmaceutical madness with a pen of the artist. Healing through the words of pain. Slowly she walked on. The pain of her feelings were of no comfort, the love of the angels child was unable to encompass her soul- the black rock of despair. She walked and walked. She knew that she had to carry her own light. That there was no one who could feel her pain. She got used to the feeling of solitude. It was stoic in a sense. Kept walking. She began to realize that her scars were her own. That in order to love another she must learn to look in the mirror. Without the screams. Learn to love herself, at the very least look at herself without the feeling of the loser. The spawn. By allowing herself to see herself through the ugly words of others she realized this most beautiful thing. That she would be ok feeling a sense of loneliness. That feeling may be what keeps her safe. The critical chameleon can always change her colors. Always leave the people safely outside the bubble. The bubble of protection against hurt and pain that drives her to unsurmountable pain. The critical chameleon walked with the angels child. The simple touch of the hand was healing her. Maybe just maybe the sun shines and this child will feel the sun.The loneliness lingered within her. She learned how to let the eyes see her softer. Her hardened black soul was not growing but it still felt empty. She learned that it was perhaps ok to let the faces. The mass of people- sinners and saints that walk their own journey see her with their eyes. Suddenly she found a hand. This hand was the most gentle hand she has ever felt. The critical chameleon found the people who saw through her colors and looked at the black soul without fear. They simply so magically said to the chameleon, walk with me and you will never be alone again. The critical chameleon was turning into the brightest colors. Flowing through her with such force and beauty that she now knew that the answers were finally there. The ultimate purpose of the pain was to make her ready to walk this path now with the people that had been on the same journey of pain and loneliness. And the angel child smiled running ahead reminding them to look up and see the beauty around them. Because they both were healing together.....

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