plastic glove waving from a skinny branch.
waving at me.
to stop living for others (mom +) worry) means to live for me
?
means to die. i am not.
this body. yours. mine. alone. together.
'remember no one will ever love the real you' feels true.
not sad. just true.
for it's ideal to be on a vast beach meditating before the ocean and an eternal sunrise all alone no others around no people just me and the universe and earth and that from which i came.
faced with real.
there are four or five mes.
i play tricks on the others to trip them up.
i nap when she needs to work i forget what she must remember i put off the bullshit she feels she must get done before play. i fuck just to piss her off. i sabotage her.
i sink her into a little pit of despair and limpness.
she loses muscle control and becomes a pile. a pile is incapable of productivity other than that imposed upon it by its own nature. chemicals.
smoke.
fire.
piles dont 'accomplish' things.
i am so tired of accomplishing and trying to accomplish things.
i am letting go of that which was never held. never.
i let go of family and body and desire for good and desire for love and happy.
jaded. sex is a tool. a medium through which jade comes forth.
i vomit mentally.
split splat on sacred ground.
and i am so. tiny. and i am so infinite. and you (niverse) are so big. and tiny.
jesus how did we go from survival to suicide?
i see neither cloud nor sky.
the night is bright in my city.
nature's city.
