But there are still words. There are words coming and going like boxes of old carelessnesses. There are shoestrings and corners to this world and I have dreams. I have dreams that people will awaken to the absolute glory of being alive, of being formed. That people will listen on street corners to extensive rhythms of poetry being shouted, squealed and screamed at all volumes. I have dreams that we will pray modestly and momentously to the trees that surround and sustain us, that the ocean will double back its breath and open its mouth wide enough to let us all in. That we will float through the surface of the sea all the way to the next world, the world just beyond us, before us and between us. I spend all of my time forcing my mind into enough creative force that I might just burst through my neurons into a state of newness so palpable that it will create a bubble…that bubble will form itself deliciously over the course of my life and someone will see it- not so that I can be seen, but so that it will be seen. i want to make art for the sake of art…so that art itself can be born, can be birthed into existence. I want to give birth. I want to be a mother to beautiful things- to a lifetime of exquisite love, to children that gulp in breaths of magic air and run free and unguarded against the western wind. I want to give birth to ideas so that the collective unconscious of the world may have fresh food to gobble up and spit out. I want to give birth to collections of colors splayed across canvas so that the goddess of color and light might be satiated. So that colors themselves might play. I want to slam words up against each other, so they can reacquaint themselves with 


And at the end of the day I want to know that I know nothing.


My life’s dream is that I may one day have enough space and money to spend my time doing the things i love and giving that love back to the world. That I might be satiated enough with the ineffable miracle of existing and that that might be enough. That somehow, through the existence of my life, I can show someone that that is enough as well. That this is enough, watching the clouds grow glorious, grey and sparkled with whiskers of white over this cracked and peeling porch in New Jersey is enough. At the end of the world, I want to be covered in paint and mud, filled with muscles and someone else’s saliva, holding the hand of someone I love and staring up at the golden crusted sky shouting THANK YOU. It’s enough. It’s always enough. 


And I never want to control this beast, this burden of being creative. I never want to know who is turning the wheels or how many buttons I have to press to get myself working again. I want to praise this mystery of manifestation, know my body, and know that it is an endless equation far beyond my brief eternity.


I do have things to say. I have things to shout, to scream and to whistle…but I have no audience. No one wants to hear my stories, no one wants to know my dreams…and that is not sad…for now, at this moment…it is liberating. I don’t have to change the world, I don’t have to revolutionize. The world has taken the keys from me and knows how to drive far faster than I could dream. I just have to sit and enjoy the ride. I just have to hold on and pray that I don’t fall off this speeding bullet train. I just have to listen to the birds sing lost somewhere on the Eastern coast of this continent. 


I want to play. Life is play. 

Let’s go.


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