An Existential Stream of Consciousness by Margaret Bart

 I have bubbled over and eaten myself into a meal not unlike Thanksgiving dinner. It was not bland, or bitter, not too sweet, and not good at all. I have never felt compelled to dip myself into hot wax like I do today but I don’t think target sells candles or vats big enough for myself and all that I hold. I write the same lines over and over until I brand my handwriting into my brain and then I am all the exists. What have I done to you Louise, have I forgotten how to spell my own name? I have eaten the ice in the ice box because all the plums were gone and I melt myself into something vast and flowing. What have I done to deserve this skin I wear. Little. I drove a guy to his house and he told me he had it all. I was very happy for him. My fingers hurt, and my friend laughs, and I feed the fish I don’t have yet, and time ticks. I am craning my neck to fit into the car, so we can crawl across this bridge I built inside myself. How many times have I said the word ‘myself’ ? How long am I? How am I doing. Hm.

Would you rather be a fish?

I think I would rather be a fish.

Just a mind, and a spine, and a heart that beats bluer blood.

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