I have learned the art of building a mosaic from the shards of my heart. Break it and I will make it more beautiful, still.
I wish to have the resiliency of a weed and the delicacy of a flower.
With enough imagination even a fleeting moment of joy is sufficient for a lifetime.
Silence is the music Sound listens to when it seeks peace from itself.
It is raining outside and I look out the window that teases me with the possibility of a life lived. I haven’t checked my mailbox for days and I try to convince myself to care.
The idea of walking to it with linear purpose overwhelms me with boredom. I wonder: How many acrobatic back flips would it take to get there? How many balletic twirls? Flutters of my eyelashes? Sexy high heeled, hip swaying struts? Loud black-booted stomps?
I open up a spreadsheet, excited, for once, to do mathematics. I create columns, rows and categories; I measure distances and prepare formulas for calculations. I grow bored and wonder: how would these calculations go if my fingers were calloused, nail-bitten and strong? If they were long and slender with nails painted in eye-dazzling varnish? If they tapped with the the tickle of a ladybug’s legs?
Time passes. One more day without the mail.
It is the vestiges of things elsewhere that most attract me to life.
I was given a tiny pot of daisies when I moved into my apartment. They are plain yellow daisies–nothing especially beautiful about them. Were they in a large field of flowers they would look unremarkable.
Neither is there anything special about the tin pot in which they live. Left in the garden section of a home goods store, it would reside at the dusty bottom of a neglected clearance bin.
I love these flowers because they wilt every single day. And every single day a tiny splash of water brings them instantaneously back to life. They are beautiful because they are fragile and resilient. I care for them because they show me their hurt as well as their joy.
If these flowers were a person, they would be my friend.
Today I ate scrambled eggs with my fingers because I realized it would be rude for them to be eaten without first being touched. I imagined that I was seated at a large table with others who followed my lead. After eating, my guests joyfully smeared the egg remnants over the bodies of one another. Aroused by this, the touching led to kissing and everyone merged into a genderless sea of oily flesh. They erupted into mutual orgasm and proceeded to fall into a slumber at the table.
I gave my untouched utensils a cheeky grin and reveled in the Sadean mess I had created by neglecting them. Content that I had given my eggs their proper respect, I proceeded to wash the dishes.
One window is all I need to travel a universe.
Imagine the religions insects have invented to bring meaning to their suffering.