Cleansing Cathartic History.

She shivers with thoughts and asks for fleece to cover her ears, her neck her eyes. Sinking into the comfort of skin she wilts. She weeps. It's these thoughts when the rest of the world is smiling that are the coldest. They knock in synapse rhythm: Ping. Ping. Ping. Faster and faster 'till the freezing begins. Occasionally, the tears start at old movies, or commercials (if they're really good), but mostly they just wait for the persistent memories. The war. Hospital stays where no one came to pick her up. A mother who spoke of love only with disgust on her lips. The piano keys turning electric under her fingers to match her wailing, note by note. Lost love. Lost people. Lost family. Lost. It's in a warp of time she weeps for better days. Minutes dream of her 'till she grows still, the shaking quieted. After these thoughts, after warmth, after tears, after stuffing the synapse strings back behind doors, closing them tightly, but without anger after becoming still, the blood returns to finger tips and smiles and she uses her quick fix to repair her world. The waves on every beach which know her footprint. The birth of her only child. The purr of her favorite cat as he shares her sunflower seeds and drinks her beer out of the bottle cap. Music, ah music, which unravels out of her depths in composition gifts. Pure love. Pure people. Pure family. Pure. Emerging tired, but triumphant, over herself, she folds up the fleece and rejoins the here and now and picks up the phone to call her daughter, with only moments having past, once again cleansing cathartic history.