THE GREEN SNAKE IN THE GREEN GRASS

Like the African saying, the green snake in the green grass, this one among us bites trusting not to be seen. The exhausting task of avoiding stepping on its sneaky figure keeps us all tiptoeing on shells. As a careless toddler, it bites out of fear of losing the sense of a privileged position that is merely an illusion, while the other, the cold-blooded kind, sits on the losing side in this unkind and unjust comparison — what an unfair portrait of such intriguing creatures. A need for adoration clogs any chance at self-reflection. Shallow hearts fill up quick and empty fast. I find myself stupidly surprised at every attempt to bite. I live in a very pretty spot in a very ugly world. A garden full of damaged children leading the way. Somehow, I manage to survive, and even thrive, though a few times I’ve caught myself head under water, merely gasping for air through the thin hole of a thin bamboo straw. Surrounded by monsters disguised as flowers. Carnivorous plants with sharp teeth behind beautiful lips. Challenging our minds and questioning our sanity with impossible mood swings. With silky talk, we take the edge off of uncomfortable silences filled with tension and confusion, for nothing here matches common sense. Fake it till you make it, they say. To whom, I wonder, if not only to your own self. Lies, lies, lies. Hissing around, collecting entourage. Now that I’ve moved backstage, they don’t really see me; they are too busy with their phones. I’m not supposed to be here; I’m expected to want more. We share glasses full of bubbles that leave a bitter aftertaste. Yet, in the middle of it all, there is space for the warmth of a kind eye spotted among the strangers around us. We meet, we greet, we understand, reminding ourselves not to fade — lift up our hands and let them slither their way, away. To where, it is not our affair — they are out chasing the night, while I’m sleeping tight. I exercise my freedom of choice and embrace this figurative snake; I greet this shiny green creature, and possible others to come, with a hug and the hope that one day, after shedding season, it will finally come to reason.

Vignette from Twelve O’Clock-Tales and After-Hours Thoughts, the book.