Think about it

Do people look outwardly in this town? Do they remember the mainstream? What's your secret? Will you tell me? My heart broke this morning when I found out I was a sacred cow. I'll say all my idiosyncracies until the well runs dry. I'm not capable of fighting back.

Can you press and dry me into the page like a flower? I used to inspire the ghostly godhead with my light. And we're all friends here in the crowded mall. The relief of socialization is felt despite my passive gaze. I'll indulge in this limitless lonely until my limitless work is finished.

Something important happened this weekend. I became Josephine. The endless blogposts spring up to cement this change. You wanted me when I'm like this but I was Alice instead. Unlucky. Like I said, I want to powerwash you.

In your mind I became a star; in my mind, I became a witch. Why do we get these genres in our dreams? A higher power pushed me to something old; you, something new. Is it a correction by God's massive pen? Am I being slashed in anticipation of the brave new world? My pores glittered. Maybe you thought I paid attention to astrology.

I'll look in the mirror all day and maybe I'll see you. This is the land of extremes. I just want to sit and talk, with you. Not in front of the crowd. I'll pretend to be industrious and businesslike. I'll reflect on what it takes to build the world around us. Corruption is timeless. It's our turn to learn how it feels.

I reflect on the little games we brought our attention to. Look at others, look away from the mirror to see me.

And the corruption will grow inside of you and tighten your muscles in the wrong direction. It'll frighten you and twist your back. The hunger returned. The desire for nourishment returned.

Did I do the right thing? Did I grow in the right direction? I'll dissect these words and grow a context. One day that context will twist my back.

I decided to take work seriously after a 30 minute run induced the terror in me. It's all so out of control the thing that brings you greater control.

And there's no luridness here: no sin to capture your attention. I bounced from Proust to the sober reality of a person devoted to good; and it's my old sin of voyuerism that paints my face black with immaturity.

That run exorcised a lethargy demon I've been chewing for years; what sin would I purify if I ran with my bright and glimmering mind? It's a warm October; perhaps I could knock out a second one. Or is that too greedy?

I do what I don't want to do for the sake of health. To be well rounded. It all falls to the wayside when I lose stability anyways. So what's the point of dragging myself out of bed for my nothing job? When will I see the fruit? When will my skill be repeatable? I'm an open book and tears are falling on the pages. I let you down.

Josephine was a difficult birth. Metaphor is easy when the petal whispers inspiration in the evening. The evening is meant to be savored slowly. To lay my head on the pillow at 9pm is the sweetest treat that was never taken away from me. The cookies, gone. Stories, gone. The chicken, gone. The morning walks, gone. My darling friends, gone.

And why did they leave? The broken lines of tradition I've crafted, why did I let go?

Metaphor, metaphor. Notebook, you are my most enduring friend. My light friends, my dark friends, I don't have the power to make them stay.

If I sent you my soliquies would you respond with your own? You did at first but withdrew due to something I can't name. You didn't fail at all. I did!

It's all negative because I chop down totems of love too quickly. It's difficult to grow back my garden after he made it a desert.

I try to be a jack of all trades but I envy the singular purpose people. They don't juggle unnecessary ideas; it all feeds into a clean force. I'm jealous because I'm ashamed of how messy I am.