I recently have found that writing hasn’t been coming so easily to me. I put a lot of pressure on myself to make art, to write poetry. So, I have decided to allow myself to write stream of consciousness pieces to take some of the pressure off. Here is one I wrote in September.

“Under the moon I bit my tongue and all of a sudden my mouth tasted of copper but I couldn’t bring myself to care. At least I was feeling something, at least the blood rose to tell me I’m still alive. There is still pain to be felt and joy to be had and people to meet and places to be. The stars are still shining and for a brief moment, I think one of them winked at me. It saw that I’m still here, that I’m still trying. And I smiled and closed my eyes, imagining what it would be like to allow myself to be seen the way I felt the sky could see me that night. To be the object of affection for a universe so vast. 

I think in a lot of ways we are the universe’s greatest works of art. How we can be so ugly and selfish and cold but find ourselves in the middle of the summer on a campground and find the connection we so desperately ache for. How we can change and evolve and how we can love and hate and yearn and shatter. 

We often talk about how mangled the art of Picasso is, but I think we hate seeing the swirls and distortions because we don’t want to talk about how we are that ugly sometimes. How we cram ourselves into places we don’t belong so we can be accepted. How it twists and bends us out of shape. We are so obsessed with looking put together that we are destined to fall apart.

 It’s really funny that way; how conformity is just distorting us until we can’t recognize our faces in the mirror. Until we blend into the crown so seamlessly that it looks less like a group of people and more like a cornfield, so vast and empty and plain.

I wonder sometimes what things I’ll look back on and regret when I’m 80, if I ever make it that far. I’m pretty sure I won’t still hate who I am, or who I was. I think 80 year old me would be proud that I fought like hell to stay different. Would love that I was a little weirdo. I think the way we strive for normalcy deprives us of wonder. Of the gasping, mouth open stare and warmth of dreams.”