Road Works Ahead

Uhh, yeah I sure hope it does. 

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 I was a simple being, simple as always, being simple is such a problem in this household, this is what it means to be my member of family, being simple is the problem with being of my family and not being my member, because if you were, you'd be more and not simple. 
 Simpler times were those where my simplicity was a trait and not a holdback, where I was praised for humility and not looked frowned upon being the simpler creature alone being there, I recollect the thoughts of my head a diary, a personal one of intrinsic capacities and capabilities. Maybe that is where my simplicity ends but it doesn't show enough since I am still being looked as simpler than the wheel. 

 You might now ask, what's wrong with being simple? My family is the special kind, my first sister has a true sight, can see a color and replicate it right away, even tell you what hexcode it is, notices details that no one does and by that I mean she can tell in what side of the mouth your tongue is based on the look of the jaw alone, she is not simple, she is a sufferable OCD maniac who doesn't let or let people interfere in the small details, she lives enclosed in the room where only she can stay, where she can't touch or rest, where the food she is served is always a monotone soup with no utensils so she doesn't get mad about the positioning of the plate in relation to the silverware and the charon, it's been 7 years since I last saw her, but I know it's been some minutes since she saw me. 

 You might now see where I go, it's important to not be simple, to be individual and unique, as my father is, who can deconstruct anything to its core, and return it all together, since small he learnt to unmake and make clocks, watches, small alarms, rings, and with time, learnt the ins and outs of cars and planes, he is brilliant, when you enter to his studio you only can see a well tempered severer who organizes as times progresses, one where the monotony of the soothing brown almost made you forget of the perfection of it's work, still pulsating and still being cut in sections, united by invisible tendrils were kept a human eye, sectioned, a cat's brain, and an iguana scale, those where impressive, the cuts were so precise not even machine could fathom to make them, he is not affective, he thinks his love can be perfectly divided and perfectly regained, and so he is right.

 He made and unmade my life, more than once, he cured me and my mother from a chronic disease, but he almost forgot of us as he found new watches and lost track of time disarming them, it was life in two weeks of feeling nothing but my head and fingers in a distance more than spooking to me, I felt the breeze of the cold garage as well as the silent weeping of my mother whose position was a little bit more suggestive, as well as missing parts, she sometimes gasped for air and I could only think about their lungs being long gone from her mouth for it, but I deeply know how much of a funny and nonchalant person my father is. Which worried me, because when I was ensambles again I felt way lighter and my stomach felt alone, but he didn't intervened on it. I think, he is repairing my mother again. 

 My mother? she gimmicks everyone, everything, she feels and we do in approach, like a banshee of sorts, I cannot tell you if she is a happy woman, or a sad one, because she is like this, this person who you cannot help, if you're in her sight, if she's with you, if you hear her, and she's sad, you're going to be sad, if she's mad, talking to you? You're going to turn mad. Talking with her means you talk in the context of her, and she's voided of willing to life but lives for their children for my sister, brother and I. And when you talk to her your soul drops into a step I didn't knew people had, like a walking zombie who walks because that's what they always did and doesn't ever learnt to stop, who drags their souls across the deepest pocket in the ground, that's what being told something by her means, and when you're near her, too near? What she feels comes to you, when my father fixed both of us, I felt an anguished fear and pleasure at the same time, but it lasted for so long, and it was at so odd time signatures, I know 4/4's 6/4's 6/8's 16/8's and 2/4's afterwards, nothing like him, to disembowel and tear apart time signatures so discriminately as he did. 

 And my brother? My bigger brother, his name is Donovan but we called him Donny, you see, Donny was simple as I, never from hearth to hell and paradise would we think of him as something other than simple, but as soon as his birthday passed by and the light was cut, he made a change of heart, the Donny that was unmasked under the darkness of that crawlspace we used to call house was not Donovan anymore, he is now serious, almost like my father, unforgiving and really ready to hold heads if it meant growth, what he was, he was Donovan, my brother, but now it's Donny, the one who grew and grew and lost all simpleness, now being abnormal. Only to be big and letting us be ourselves inside of his length, his guts look like drywall and his bones like wood, he feels old even being some years older than I am, he looks decrepit even if it wasn't long since he turnt into this, the one pillar, as he is always in contact of my mother, he also is really depressing to listen too, maybe that's why I don't see him much around, he holds my father and my mother, he lends them a place to sleep and where to sit, inside of his magnetic magnitude, he let's me and my sister stay with him inside of him, living out of him. And we let him be outside all day, because if he is inside, what house would he return to? 

 I am not special like my brother or my sister, nor I have that semblance of shape shifting my grandmother used to have, or that cacophonic voice that my grandparent presumed against my family. I am simple, have I said that before? I had no ability or any motivation to have one, nor did I spend my life in one thing, I cannot see what others do, I cannot express how others do, I cannot hold like others do, I cannot understand how others do, but it's all of no shame, no, no shame for me, I like being simple. Simple as Static, yes.

 Whitenoise have no noise, it's the flickering of the waves, white noise is not real, is just your eyes not being able to see between the lines, and cannot hear past the buzz, and the sewing of the threads flow from behind my head, of my head, of my thoughts? I am simple as a straight line, but this Television, it twist the lines, and shapes them and calls them and attracts them to my magnet as my brother does, and I can see underneath the display as my sister, and it feels as I am the Television, and I consider it to feel like I do, misguided and alone and stagnated and pointless and fearsome of being plugged off. As my mother.

This Television is as close to me as I am to it, it is a fantastical thing, it shows me all, all that I have ever seen, all the wonders, I seen people as my family now, people with powers like them, people who heal others with knifes and scalpels, people who charms animals, people who know everything that happens, people who can morph into animalistic cartoon figures,  I've seen people with abilities to talk and sing loud. I've seen them all thanks to the Television. And It is just like me in that way, It's all simple, I know it is, I see the electricity going in and out and the waves of information going in and out.