#writingcollection

Walking to the C-line I gaze at a small, turquoise cross high on a steeple a few stories higher than the other buildings. Its been framed by several skies. Squinting at the turquoise violently, vibrant against gray today.

Its silhouette creates a stirring. I wonder if I'd have the same feelings if it were a different object. Is it just its towering against the sky that brings awe?

People have told me my art makes them feel something. This makes me not want to make it anymore.

Ironically, people next to me at the café discuss God's love. Awe doesn't bubble the same way as the turquoise emblem. Maybe it is just its height looking down at us...listening, I feel dizzy.

The cross is framed by blue and white, dulling it immensely. I think all my dreams could be a farce. Time will just pass me by; an old derelict, who believes she's a seer. That old witch that lives in the dilapidated apartment, long silver hair knitted up into scarves. My youth has already taken its leave from my face. I see it in the photos.

There doesn't seem to be much meaning. I hear a mother threaten her child. I wonder if she goes to church. How many generations of mean- spirited misgivings. The mother looks down at the child and sees herself reflected back. The image scares her. She spanks the child.

If you only experience yourself, it's only natural to be the main character. As one sentence leaves my mouth, my mind has stacked a thousand different things already. The sky cross whispers that I'm small. It seems menacing. I spit. Against the stars it's merely a high-up shape. I flip it off. I show it my boobs. Then my ass. I tell the overbearing object, this piece of metal that embodies all of my problems, the worker who fashioned it long dead, having made 50,000 turquoise crosses for steeples, I tell the object to come down and fight me. It never moves. Its a better man than I. I wish I lived by the A line.

There are a lot of conversations at the coffee shop. Chattering lives, philosophy, relationships. Everyone is playing their life, words tasted slowly, a grinding mind of variables, only I live in this head, only ever sharing pieces of a whole. My hands shake at the keyboard.

UNEDITED

The buzzing in her head only stops when she gasps and moans. Sweat so sweet, little beads on her forehead. Slinks to a lover's room hoping night will fall from her skin.

No one will be beside her when she wakes up. Saunter to the kitchen, admiring reflection in every surface. Grotesque, stretched, squashed, she can't take her eyes away.

She never washes fruit, yet worries of the eyes that fall into her mouth. Feels slightly envious of what they may briefly see. Acid churn bubbles, turning everything to its place.

She touches her hair, feels her breast, in a way no lover could. She took on sweethearts so she could put on a show, another vessel to making love with herself.

Easy to love the physical form, god-touched, privileged-to-be-working, arms and legs, body. That was the only thing that made sense.

Connecting the mind to the body was far more work. The body rock, the mind liquid; unable to be grasped like the thigh, unable to be tasted like the burning soup.

Sever here is mouthing words to the song overhead. Experiencing food may be the only tether I have to being alive. Everyone is very cute. Everyone is very caged.

Have to live in an ego world when capitalism spoon fed us ego. Unsure why I think I have answers. Moving to New York I've taken a "some people must be AI," stance. Orbiting one another constantly. Each head erupting words, millions of words contained in the subway car now, phones dissipating some words away, others' words float near me, now confused which words are mine or theirs. I turn my music up.

Manager is wearing a tight, tight, tight brown velvet dress. She's pretty large, I wish her tummy could be my pillow. Bartender with wordy head places a tray in front of me. These oysters have a thick milky fluid that slides out of their shells. Never know if they're that good or if I just love sex.

Try to acknowledge all words around when able. Yet if whispers are heard too often a stone begins to crush my ribs. Every single person is a main character in this story. You think of things you relate with reading this. Seeing me in the coffee shop, I was just another girl. You didn't wonder what I was thinking about. Actually you thought I looked sort of bitchy.

Slowly the oyster's flavor fills my mouth. Moving my tongue, its slick taste over my cheeks, the back of my throat. This is mine. Each time I taste, it's my experience. I could never taste for anyone else. The experience is personal, inside of me. No one's words could pervade eating. Feeling is mine.

Seeing the server mouth the words reminds me he's alive. He likes this song. He has no reason to share this with me. He's going to go home and play it again. He won't remember my face. I don't remember his.

I have hope we'll figure it out in several more generations. Look back on this time, shame us, dismayed amazement. I think a lot of people will suffer first.

Often think about womanhood. World's bias makes it impossible to accurately perceive the self. Maybe I am too sensitive, brash, opinionated. Or are these just things society puts on me to silence me?

It's raining on the Christmas tree outside. The lights flash between two different light settings every second. I can't stop staring at it, it seems fucking depressing. Someone else would think it's beautiful. Then I decide it probably is beautiful. Then I don't know. That makes me feel insane.

Thoughts are always fleeting. More should be sorted out in my subconscious, not so close to the surface.

There's a woman in line whose voice fucking grinds me. She asks about the alternative milks, I don't know why it's so goddamn annoying. What triggers these things inside of us?

I oscillate between the hyper positive and cynical ramblings. Many of my friends find this extremely annoying; as they should. Simultaneously, they choose either toxic positivity or mute cynicism. I hate that they've so readily chosen a side. Solely because I envy that in them. Living a truth. Those fuckers.

I look at the tree again. "Are you beautiful or are you ugly?" The tree says it doesn't give a fuck and to stop staring at it.