my favorite hat
my favorite scarf
my warmest mittens
a digital camera
MY MIND kindof
the world is so vast and so fucked and so beautiful and there are so many places I want to go and people I want to meet and things to do and
things to decide
and I worry about fucking myself over
"I am not meant for this world"
but am I any more meant for another?
I live inside of my mind and thrive on the feeling of getting even an inch out
I am still the little girl who plays with insects under the stone by the hose faucet on the side of the house
and the one who sits alone in a hollow house, friendless and lifeless and secretly wishing to die or else to feel somewhat alive
and the one who fell in love with everything at once and couldn't sleep for fear of losing that feeling
and the one who exploded from the overwhelmingness of the everythingness of the entire fucking Earth.
and the one who has never really fit anywhere and still doesn't know where she fits
and likes very much where she is right now
but even right now is much too fast, much too fast
concrete sets forever a few hours after you pour it, permanently and concretely forever
you won't always be able to inscribe your name or your lover's in that little mass of ground rock and ancient sediment of infinite wisdom.
I'd rather work in nature's time,
deliberate, intentional,
it only makes sense.
It only makes sense.
I never,
ever
ever
make any sense.
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