Fingers fly across the pages, a desperate analyzation that bears no fruits. Right or wrong? Error. Good or bad? Error. Panic fuels the lonely scholar, error after error, and no amount of research will make sense of it. Everything fits cleanly, up or down, right or left. Yet the scholar’s input systems know no grey area. Data feeds in in an endless loop, you: bad. You: good. You: more data required. The brain is no machine, try as trauma may to rewire that. Humans *are* emotion, unpredicatable experience and everything in between, little scholar. You must update your softwares. You are human, you are not meant to see in black or white, but the beautiful irridescent range of everything, and nothing in between. Little scholar, you cannot possibly fit everyone into your safe, categorical boxes, for humans rarely fit neatly in one place or the other. The beauty in being alive is being messy and incalculable. Not black, white or monochromatic, but an enticing variegated array of experience.

My first kiss had an identical twin sister. In a weird little twisted triangle, I actually started with a crush on the one who didn't kiss me, but ended pretty tangled up in the other one.

It ended with me settling in with her best friend.

Twisted little triangle, indeed.

From somewhere inside the wreckage of that fiasco with the twins, I plucked some wisdom. Firstly, I learned that a dude named George was an asshole. He was pretty keyed up to throw down, but I laughed at him and turned my back. Turns out he had a thing for the girl who kissed me. Sorry, George. I never forced her to hands-free swap her Mystery Mix Now & Later in the backseat of my car.

Second, I learned that braces aren't awesome. Later, I learned that braces really suck for a different kind of kissing, if you catch what I'm throwin.

Third, I found that love finds us, we don't find it.

Love has found me a few other times throughout my life, and sometimes it was good. Other times, it was good for a while. On occasion, it was bad, but even before it went ugly, it was beautiful.

Those twins remind me that too much of a good thing is a bad thing. Two girls, identical in every physical way, but so very different. Two girls is probably one too many; life aint everything Penthouse Forum promised it would be.

One sister was kind and gentle, the other was all edges and angles.

When the edgy one kissed me, it cut.

Decades later, when I see her picture from time to time, I smile.

I hardly even notice the taste of a little blood.

Sylvia Plath has that famous line - the one about figs, and how there are so many to choose from, it's impossible to know which one to choose. She wants it all.

I don't.

As I write this, I sit uninspired, by everything. I'm bored - all the time. I drink my coffee in the morning to wake up - for what? To do the 9 to 5? I'm tired.

Sylvia Plath has another famous line - "I want so desperately for the good things to happen." It's grim, with a suicidal flavor. And it opens a large can of worms.

Like - what happened to her figs?

Too much of a good thing can be a bad thing. We have so many choices thrown at us, every day. It's overwhelming. There's no way to enjoy all the figs.

And if you don't choose a fig, it drops to the ground and rots. It's too late.

As I sit here, enjoying my cup of coffee, I have to wonder why I'm uninspired. My phone literally has an internet search engine on it that could come up with any idea my heart desires to pursue. But I remain stagnant - overwhelmed by possibility, I have shut down completely.

I wonder if Sylvia Plath hadn't picked "poet" as her fig, if she hadn't picked "marrying Ted Hughes" as her other fig, if she'd still be with us. It's an impossible question to answer.

It's impossible to know when too much of a good thing becomes a bad thing. But it remains entirely possible for there to be too much good, too many options, too many figs.

"No thank you, I'm full." Is a gunshot in the air.

My ears ring, tongue licking lips to clear them of the gunpowder.

The duellists beneath this yellow lighting- a ninety-one year old immigrant grandmother, and a thirty-something girlfriend.

I watch, my eyelids peeled against my will (my torturer; the grip of familial penchant for drama).

My grandmother grins. All rates-ratus (grab a pipe, or a glass of wine)

"Ai-th-ee, please see this whorish-mule of a woman out."

She says to my brother; the boyfriend.

Shotgun shells litter the floor as she pushes her chair back, and disappears to pray.

It is with deep gratitude I write to acknowledge all you have done for me this winter. I know I am not amongst the most prolific, well-spoken or intelligent in the group. I know I don’t read or write as much as others (especially lately). I know I have been largely slacking on my likes, follows and reposts, which makes me feel bad on Discord as I see I am missing some really great content. I know it has been such a long time since I have participated in a challenge and I missed so many great ones, both reading and writing them.

Yet this platform has been like an invisible hand holding mine through my seasonal depression. Each time I venture to share my heartspeak I receive nothing but positivity, love, encouragement and understanding.

This winter was the worst in a long time. I abandoned nearly all of my positive habits which have been my stabilizers over the years. This resulted in me shedding all the tears my dehydrated self (so much bourbon) could muster. Each morning I spent 2-3 hours lying in bed convincing myself to stay alive first. Get out of bed second. And so on and so forth until I found myself washed (most of the time), dressed (all of the time thankfully), and at my desk at work, where suddenly I fit again.

If it weren’t for @fudo, @ledlevee and @putski, I may have not written or socialized the entire winter. If it weren’t for The Prose, I might not have made it through alive.

So if you ever wonder if you make a difference in the world, know that if you read, liked, reposted, followed and especially commented on one of my sporadic posts this winter, you helped save a life. I can’t tag all of you for fear of missing someone and creating a hurt where I am only trying to pay back love, but if you are reading this, I am definitely speaking to you.

And of course my indebtedness to @jeffstewart and @A and @mamba and the other Prose ideators and administrators, known and unknown to me, knows no bounds.

I feel renewed this morning, woke up wanting to enjoy living instead of convincing myself to stay alive, so I know the depression has passed until late fall. And the very first thing I had to do, was say thank you to y’all.

Heartfully,

Mee Jong