Life is a shallow pool.
And the younger you are, the shallower it is; though you think its depths are endless.
A sunflower is god, because it is yellow. The fucking blue sky burns your retinas with glory.
A rotting, wooden board is a pirate ship and you are the captain.
You can believe lies so easily, when you are young.
I am almost-young.
A fading. My new self is forming within my youth, like a pearl forms inside a shell: surrounded by weak flesh.
This may sound all well and good.
You may be saying to yourselves, okay, so she can be more of a realist now. She can stop living in careless frivolity. She can step up and become something.
Don’t you know me but at all?
Jesus, readers. Pull yourselves together.
If I don’t have my fairy tales, what am I? I won’t make it through that kind of transition. I’m not built for it. I need my worlds and my universes and my fancies. If my existence becomes mostly about doing dishes and seeing a rotting board instead of a majestic vessel, obscurities will bury me. A literal sort of burying, like taking too many sleeping pills. You will hardly see my shadow on the wall.
Now you are certainly saying amongst yourselves (yes, I can hear your muttering) that realism and fantasy can hold equal magic, but you are wrong. Because I know we are all headed in the same dusty direction through sinks and riverbeds into stone. I know that we are all lost. I feel pointless.
I am the oyster. The pulled apart flesh. No more shell. You might gain a pearl from my life. I hope you do. But I won’t be there to see it.
I wish to find personal galaxies in the evolution of the sky during a partly-cloudy afternoon. There are at least seventy worlds in the sky on any given partly-cloudy afternoon.
Don’t let me live myself into death. Help me go back. I want to un-know horrors.
I want to live in a sweet, sordid euphoria.