I’ve been sorting through my old writing, having run the inkwell on my muses dry for the week.
Well, I just haven’t seen any of them. I’ve been stuck in this apartment shaking off fever dreams,
Coughing up the consequence of my weak American heart.
I have nowhere to run to anymore. New York was always my refuge, my excuse, my explanation for why something wasn’t enough. Or someone.
Well, I guess there is always India. Mexico. Bruges.
New York was something different. just feasible enough that at any moment I could escape. I did escape. Often. Until I finally moved here.
This is what happens when I get locked in my bedroom for three days. Alone. Until now it’s been enough. This city, I mean.
He asks,
But what about his skin?
I am in a fight with my dead mother. For the first time in almost 5 years she has been making regular appearances in my dreams. I resent her for being the inspiration behind my best writing. She will never know! She will never know. The frustration of that matter is overwhelming. I understand that as a human I am worth more than the part of me that is missing. Her absence has made her more of a presence.
I am the only art project she ever finished, and she will never know.
I should channel this artistic frustration into something worthwhile.
Or onto someone worthwhile.
Tehe loved the opening line. You’re so dashing.
Your first two choices were India and Mexico? Unexpected. India maybe. Bruges for sure.
I can’t go more than a day locked away. I always have to escape, even if it’s to nowhere.
I think it’s possible she may know. But maybe we have different opinions about this. And on her absence creating more of a presence, I feel exactly the same way about my grandfather.
I just don’t know how to settle a subconscious fight with a dead woman. Clearly I am just fighting myself. There’a no real way to win that.