From left to right: Angstbeing, Wellbeing & Ecstabeing

If being okay, calm and mellow, they think, is to be well. Then, to be well, I think, is to be a well being.

To measure my own wellness, being a being, I pinch my skin; it feels like flesh, only mildy hairy, threaded through with purple veins and sprinkled over with freckles – easily bruised and, now, a little crook.

Crook, because my skin retains its pinched and wrinkled look for a little longer than once it did; than once it did for the once-was-me being of a child-being.

And this crooked thought, of a crooked-once-was-smooth skin, fires up my anxiety-hunters – the little people, who live within me; the ones who slave away at gathering up my little pieces.

My little snippets of worries – picked up, poked at, and popped into leaky sacks.

I know that my mouth is crook. I see my crooked mouth in the mirror; lop-sided, hanging there – just mulling things over. Completely crook. I am convinced that this is the work of my anxiety hunters; my nasty little in-beings, dumping their leaky sacks down upon my synaptic nerve – too lazy to even mop up the overspill!

Is to be well to be straightened out? To smooth out one’s skin with the magic of moisturiser? To contort one’s synaptic nerve muscles until a mouth twists itself back into a straight line – a line that goes straight from A to B, without any blips or wrong-turns in between? If I shifted my house onto a flat plain, and walked down this hill to join it, would I be a little less crook? Would being me, be being well?

Would I be a well being?

Something erupts inside me. I know this because my skin, once pinched and crook, now twitches and yells at me. And I know this because the other side of my mouth (the side that is not crook) is in lift-off mode, leaping up and beyond my not-crook ear (the one minus the edge bumps), taking itself off and launching itself onto Planet Ecstasy. It’s laughing, guffawing –  high on fumes of rotten spillage!

At this moment, I know that a well being I am not. To be a well being, is only to be a tinsy-bit better than to be a crook being, and I don’t want to be crook – or well!

In this moment, I become aware that I have transitioned. I have become my own ecstabeing.

I greet the new me.

Copyright owned by Jay Cool, March 2019

Image of ‘Pears’ by cocoparisienne on Pixabay

Published by The Silly-Savvy Salopian

Freelance writer and descendant of the cave dweller and outlaw, Humphrey Kynaston. Banished from Shropshire for my eccentricity, I have made my home in Suffolk. I write poetry, short stories, travel journals, comedy gig reviews and non-fiction articles. My wish is to write my way back into the heart of my birth land. All writing commissions (and free holidays in Shropshire!) considered.

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