it’s hard to imagine. like this, like something you could never have imagined. to write the impossible. it was once easy like lying. like taking the words from one set of places and putting them over here instead. making them stick. believing in the picture they make. fractured mosaic.
and they do. they do. but it’s the sticky bits that make it all confusing. that make the stomach churn. it was once so easy to write stories right out of your head about power and drugs and sex and betrayal and the insane little moments that add up to a young life.
the key is, you’re not young anymore. and to write now of a you,not-you comes off as an accusation, as cause for accusation, as cause for upheaval and betrayal. there is no question i feel more acutely now the pressure of the decisions i have made in my life. but i do not regret not one of them. i simply want to write and make shit up without fear of being read.
i can only write to wonder, wander with the you,not-you of me to where ever he goes, where ever he can still take me.