You keep repeating relationships—which means your life is the same now as it was when you were a child. You’re not proud of it, but you know you’ve been having the same conversations with your mate as you had with your father when you were ten. Remember, you were being efficient as only you knew how, while chopping iceberg lettuce and fresh tomatoes in the orange-cupboarded kitchen—when he arrived home from work and began demanding that you inventory what you’d accomplished during the day. You swear it was the same conversation you just had in your alder-cupboarded kitchen, even though then you were wearing a red scort and white peasant top, and now you’re wearing black capris and a white tank. Iceberg even.

Being the same makes you want to be different and you begin to question God’s seven-days-to-creating-everything event and wonder why He’d let you take so much time figuring out this pattern. Maybe there’s a theory somewhere that would clarify your behavior, since relating to others from a brain-recording makes for a strange self that has little control over its’ actions. Robot-like.

And when you become what you think you should be rather than who you really are, you are apt to keep a snarling space being behind your hooded eyes; yes a beast that will lash out in retaliation any moment. And your voice—it’s like it’s been stolen by aliens. Tension tightens your throat from time to time, skinny green fingers gagging you, pressing over the burning lump that is increasing exponentially—soon your throat will compete with the vastness of the cosmos. And you can’t say a word because it’s physically impossible and even if it were possible, the being might kill you if you opened your mouth.

It’s a strange world, this place you’ve created. A world you might call Planetoid Insane. Everyone says the citizens of this asteroid are expressionless people who speak in quiet monotones. Like the computer’s voice. Pleasantries placate. Serene faces are façades hiding Planetoid Insane’s pending eruptions. Everyone says it’s a damn hole-in-the-wall place to visit. The only reason to go there is if you have a hankering to mimic paint drying right up until the moment that you fly out of control. If that’s the case, then knock yourself out.

Bio: Nancy Lou Canyon holds the MFA in Creative Writing from PLU. More at www.nancycanyon.com and http://canyonwriter.blogspot.com