my mother could contend against a beast regardless of physical size, intelectual capacity. the only beast that i don't like her to face is me. my own beast. i'm sometimes like a possessed being who gets driven, subconciously to doing or saying or acting, i would say some sort amateurish and immature. being my age sometimes is weird like having the ghost of a sixteen year old trapped within u and (taking over) control the faculties of rationality, something akin to that feeling of hormonal peaking in ur blood. most times she is nice and i accorded a similar return of gesture. though she is a capable exorcist, sometimes she gets into me more devils and friends of his. maybe her being antisocial and secretive as something to do with it. it feeds the mind a vicous cycle of thoughts- untamed, unfiltered, waiting to be released! and these become her weapon,like she's the warrior havng to fend herself off, from the perils of her life and our life of the everyday. maybe such chronicity transformed her. into that woman warrior that she has learned to grow into, not mere chance nor by choice but by my stubborness to accept extremities, with virtues of her own upbringing and me of my own. to her, her "american" children have no feelings and memory, n these hollow beasts, made her "crazy" in her own way, unknown to me or anyone- and this craziness could have been the role of someone else, for she made me afraid, really afraid when at times she says nothing, did nothing, as if i can hear herslam the door through that silence.
i would dream of vampires.