I’m feeling life slowly come back. Like pale skin to a cut throat, or my mother’s hand coming through six feet of earth. There is still a curse, there is still a truth of life that isn’t spoken. There is still “Je n’etais rien”, and there is still instability. The ground doesn’t shake, I still smile, I still love. I still. I still. I still say “et toi?” in my head in different languages and different intonations to different shaded and shadowed figures that look like mothers or pretty girls. There are still stolen ideas, and there is still uncreativity. There are still billboards telling me to buy shit I don’t need, or telling me to assimilate to a culture-less society. I’m still out of my skin, and there are crosses that look like crescents, but acts like quartz mountains, but acts as if I can have a mother who’s limbs are not transparent in my waking reality, and solid in the discomfort of shifting dreams.
This is challenging reality, shimmering paint distancing from comfort. I want questions. I don’t want fucking answers, they’ve never done anything for me except to toss closure at my face. I don’t want closure, I want the luxury to relish in humanity. I wasn’t asked to be born, I didn’t choose the era or location to be created, but I am asking myself for compliance without negligence. I am going to build to the rhythm of water, an eternity mirrored in beauty and repetition, a ritual in purity ensuring discipline. The gift of art from the gift of the sea polluting self-indulgence. And, when you touch me between my eyes, I can’t help but falter, I can’t help but be exposed, and I can’t help but weep. To where each tear is a poem, and each poem I say because I am human. Heaven and the weak reaching out in angelic savageness gripping empathy by the throat, praying in its spellbinding violence, a violence so savage that it borders on the beautiful.