The Book
I zoom out of my life by running towards the edges of the world. If I skip this page and let it run over, will it not extend? Will the book not enlarge? I would hope that by scattering off the page, I realize there is more of it.
Or, do I hover ethers above my life? Do I close and enter a new book? All I can say is that in Paris I found something I was looking for. Then as I traced my steps back to London and all the way back to New York I saw remnants there too.
Thus, I sit with you here in Los Angeles with a dry face and electric blue hair to remind us there is another you waiting. Just over there. I want to run and discard the book but there are pages left to be read here. They are dwindling, but they are here. I will not run away from them. I will read them voraciously. With tears in my eyes. I want what is there to be near but I must tend to what is before me now. I forgo myself to the unknown. It lives above me like a sheer marble sphere. It is beautiful and foreboding. It is my sixth sense. I rely on my instincts and the malleable glass that follows me above. This orb-like creature that reminds me I am of my own volition.
I am feeling something that lives in the between of myself. In the closing and ushering of new chapters. Folding the pages back to reread. Retrace. I flip the pages back to resume, but this time there is a somberness. My fingers are sticky with a residue. The pages take their time to unreel from each tip. I would like to be more intentional with continuing my story. I have decided it is not of proper use to discard of myself entirely. There are things I would like to scrape from the bottom and the sides, to keep. To salvage. To keep very safe. There are elements of myself that have rusted that I would like to make use of. More. They have a placement that feel institutional to my life. I would not like to do away with the love I have received and have been given. Though it has coagulated and formed a sort of paralysis on my psyche. I know that all that is required of me is to distill some of this freedom I have found by myself, and spill it liberally on what has been pre-affected. To form a mixture, to loosen the bonds, to make what is thick, soar, and spread. A love hardened into rock must be melted. Let it seep and pour everywhere I have gone missing.