Fatigue arises viciously when one assumes
the role of both clown and companion. It all feels so forced. This feels so
forced. And mother. The one who can deliver such elation and, to the same
degree, knock me the fuck down. I feel her in my blood, and often want to affix
a leech to my thigh to suck her out. She’s like art: makes me sad while
suggesting the sublime.
She…and my friends make me want to run
and run and run away. But, I can’t allow people too much power over me or my
actions. I am fit to make my own decisions even if the portrait of my
invincibility, humor, and beauty, keeps me suspended in the gallery of everyone’s
minds.