A Prologue or So

So, I sincerely doubt that anybody reads this.  But in case anybody cares, this is an early portion of the book I am working on (2 of 5).  Written while reading Invisible Monsters with Fight Club on in the background.
Cups
Imagine you're made out of starlight, this perfect glittering spiral of mystery and life. You're a weightless galaxy, filled with endless possibilities. Everything is warmth and gentle spinning.
 
Then something happens. A star supernovas. Spirits implode into black holes. You are compressed into a needle point. All your pain is concentrated into one long red thread. You are disintegrated into agony and suffocation.
 
There you are. One speck of dust floating in ceaseless darkness. No suns. No comets. No air.
 
That is what it is to be born. At least for me.
 
There was a time and place where I knew what it all meant. Why the ones and zeroes, the Xs and Ys make all life spin clockwise or widdershins across the universe. I knew a realm where tomorrow brushes against millenniums past and death is but a shifting of particles.
 
All that was erased when I slipped into wet flesh and dry bone. I can't hear lunar cycles over static and speech. I can't swim over skies with these mortal limitations of lungs and limbs. I had a cosmos. I had infinity. All this was sacrificed at the altar of sensation and self-awareness.
 
That is what it is to live. At least for me.
 
Existing as a non-isolated human is to move through a constant fog of thunder and lighting. All the electric impulses storming through our minds, and the shouts of frustration that come roaring through our lips. Who can know peace?
 
At some point in my time line (for the chronology of humanity finds itself hopelessly linear), my spirit became stiff inside me like a body in traction. A lack of interest in what there was to be seen sewed my eyes closed. My dancing legs twisted only in my bed if I could help it. My unabused body lay stagnant beneath the weight of my catatonic spirit.
 
Why would my soul abandon my mind? In its infancy it was raised to be loved and praised, creative and kind. It was cradled in an inoffensive body, all blonde-haired, blue-eyed and cherubic; an angel in a Christmas pageant. A Silent Night solo quavering over a sea of glittering gazes at the altar of innocence and obedience.
 
My cheeks and belly stayed round and soft beside the lengthening legs and broadening hips of my peers. I became ridiculous in my monochrome pink; a cabbage rose in a garden of lilies and peonies. I was still cushioned in my adolescence. I still dreamed about Ken doll princes and moonlit, magical girl warriors.
 
What did I know about being a magical girl or a warrior when I was so exposed, a shell cracked open without any pearls? Suddenly, I had to compare myself against everything and everyone. Altar boys told me my breasts were too small. Lip glossed mouths asked if I brushed my frizzing hair, caught between falling straight and curling, with no stylish middle ground. Did I listen to the right music? Did I worship the right god? The certainty of my childhood identity cracked under scrutiny. I was too loud for the scholars; too trusting and gullible for the queen supremes and homecoming kings. I was unremarkable and beyond understanding to most, the typical exception being the English teachers who read my raindrops-on-roses poetry for boys who would never see it. I was something to be molded into a proper caste, a suitable role, but my kicking feet and burning lips pinched out of the cracks and never quite fit.
 
So, I chose to become a warrior. I sweat school nights and summer camps into a black belt. I signed up to wrestle with the boys; I learned to surrender my mind to breathing steadily as we ran, dropped, charged, and struggled. When the cheerleaders called me a dyke and a freak in gym class, I took up the armor of all young changelings who are more tangle than sparkle. My flower prints and butterflies were replaced with spikes and chains. My pinks were painted over with black and red. I used to love boy bands and girl groups with catchy songs about slick deejays and first kisses. While I wolfed down veggie subs for days before matches, I became haunted by glam goth frontmen and suicide chanteuses who growled about tourniquets and moaned for dead sisters.
 
Without meaning to, while I stomped my Dance Dance Revolution in the arcade, hemorrhaging quarters, I sloughed the baby fat from my bones. Underneath my oversized band tees and practice sweats, I became slim and sylph-like. With my waist-length waves released from their mesh caul after a match, my taut thighs working beneath emerald green spandex, I could have been pretty to someone who wasn't a parent in the bleachers, or a scrawny 93 pound boy sweating potential humiliation. Without this knowledge and the prideful behavior that comes with it, I stayed the outcast in the hallway, in my huddle of girls with arm warmers and boys who played arsonist for kicks. We floated in this little rain cloud of teen angst, not entirely sure where we belonged.
 
And then there was the theater.
 
Sing, oh muse, of the smith god's awkward teenage years.
Of a shoplifting Hermes.
Of the rape of Artemis.
 
Of my head on a silver platter in Sylvia Plath's oven.
 
Call me Ishmael.
Call me irresponsible.
Call me baby.
Call me maybe.
 
 
Call me anything you want.