Peaceful as a Hurricane Eye

April Showers. They're certainly present in my life. I have a leather bound journal full of puddles from the storms, past Aprils have wrought. A cleansing of one's life, brought about once a year (at least), that floods the wells that lead to the waters of my mind and wrecks havoc on the bridges and housing I've built.

Am I just a capsule, replicating nature? As time passes a new season begins while another ends. Some running so quickly that their whole existence elapses over the course of one day? Some occurring at least once a month, on their own revolution, like a little personified planet bullying its way to the surface to drive for awhile.

It's easy for me to recognize when another has taken over. I'm outside myself watching, screaming, and writhing in an attempt to make it stop, but the driver doesn't listen to backseat drivers and mockingly increases in acceleration until I'm silenced and blinded by a cage of wind, captured just outside their world.

Find the door to this world and you'll see illusions, cross the bridge over that rushing river to another house where there are snow capped mountains and everything looks a little off, but almost real, it fails in comparison and isn't much to look at. There are many little houses, little worlds and within each little world, a little me resides, quietly waiting for their turn to drive.

With this April's shower a few houses were built, other worlds created. My life in one world is a faery tale, where I'm the jealous, angry, bitter witch, making demands upon the one who cast love's spell upon me and I her. I keep her locked up in a cage of misery perpetuated by varying doses of inadequacy. When she screams for it to stop, I laugh in her face and demand a recounting of what she's done for me lately.
Why do I marinate in anger and irritations, that are spiced by my own tired and loneliness?

That house has been slightly razed. Another house built on top, but it is still under construction and difficult to define with a language that is not mine.

It is peaceful here. There is love and happiness littering the saturated grass in the form of little crystals, reflecting the brilliancy of the color spectrum. I lie in the dew, imagining a world for two, with a white knuckled grasp upon my dreams. It is doubt that teasingly runs by and paints my knuckles white. For even though I try to show my love this world, I can not see through her eyes, nor have I figured out how to give her mine.