Seeing more than inkblots

A few weeks ago, a friend asked, “How are you?” I responded, “I wish I were you when you were me and we all moved around for love.” I’m getting used to cryptically predicting my own future.

If I had to choose a superpower, I would want to emit a fine mist of anger onto people near me. The internal repellent would come out of my pores. Sticky and orange would be preferable additions, but I’ll take what I can get, as long as it’s controllable.

I thought about apologizing for words that push off the building ledge of contemplation, but I realized that can’t be carried with my own weight anymore. I’ve also gained far too much by living without fear to turn back in regret.

There is a flutter in the pit of my stomach when I think of love and a pain when I remember that we don’t make a living as artists. Those things might always be connected. I’m also starting to believe art can change the world. This could last for a few more idealistic years, meaning forever.

I want to make consensual sexual advances, not war. Maintaining lover/fighter balance is easier when someone is there to get your back as you step out of the shower.

I’ve been working a lot so I can go to wave pools and on holiday up the coast in my free time, but I end up missing lectures and I love to listen. I’ve started acupuncture and so far, migraines no longer make my life intolerable. Tunisia came home and we work on eating. An adviser at school told me I use too many “I” statements. He would. I will finish anyway because collaboration is the way and we fly for what we want.

So much rock is upon our city. Let’s roll.