Sticky but not quite—more like exposed skin baptized in salt brine. The sound of rising and falling breath always vying for moremoremoremore in a good way, like a garden growing out of its thorns. The callouses of my feet wither away with the sand and spit. Sit on a rock and let the sun touch you all over.
The ocean looks hazy in the way it’s supposed to, like sweat or smudges on your glasses. Astrid looks out to the water with a sense of understanding that feels mutual, and we both decide that the feeling can only aptly be described as love. Being out in the wilderness feels special, like going back to an understanding you already have inside yourself. I think that being in the city makes you forget what you can do with your body. I think people likely profit off of this truth. The mountains— being in them— makes me want to cry citrus tears at the sun. I’m still thinking in half-thoughts. I’ll have more to say about this when I am home, and awake.
Ecstasy, I think. With teeth at least.
Eroded batteries acid piss poor luck not enough water dry spell dry heave heat on organ back to body I’m too cold for this and the wasps are out stinging again.
I am living proof that there’s a cold hard centre if you suck hard enough!
The late July heat is getting to me and I am starting to wonder if it’s possible to write yourself into a hole. Outside I hear the sounds of big machines scraping the pavement into hot bites, which is fitting for a heat wave. Asphalt and the sun go together in a way I can’t quite describe. My thoughts have been racing and it is hard to tell if I need to sweat, or cry, or if somehow those two things are actually functionally the same.
I think everything in the natural world is telling me not to force anything. I keep scaring things away by getting too close, like the ladybug that flew off my hand. I am much better now at not letting want become desperation—I do well in art when I am not itching to make it, I do well with friends when I do not need them to like me. You can hear a fog horn in my neighbourhood stretch over the trees. If I walk and I walk I will just make it to the water. Nothing else.
I’d like to focus more and write more and be more calm and let the earth eat me and open my own mouth wide while it happens. And say “thank you” after. I want to make my money’s worth of this city I call home, which has historically meant leaning on the lips of salt-stained and alcohol-tinted mouths all flurried and exotic, but now means sitting quietly in the park and watching the schoolchildren play.
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