I wrote a line and it made faces at me. I wrote a word – and it spat it right back to my face. What is happening? What has changed?
I want to write. I want to scream my hair follicles out. I want to blow up into a thousand shards of glass and pierce my bloody way out of this black scary night.
Why am I here? Does anyone know where I am? What if I am forgotten? What if I fade away like my grandpa’s letter to me written with a pencil in a language I don’t understand? Does he know I am thinking of him? Why did he write that letter and leave it in an old album in the middle of some pictures. Now that I have found it – what do I do with it?
Should I write a letter to my future self? What should I write? Why do I write? Why ever, when I am not proud of a word of it?
What am I proud of? Am I any good at who I am? Am I any good at the stands I hold? I don’t know so much. I change my ideas so much. Why is that? Should I really be asking myself if I am good enough when my ideas of what is good and what is not hide behind masks? How do I know where I am headed?
I cannot do this – I have to know. So if the black won’t go, I will paint it red. And yellow and green and pink – bright girlie pink. I will wear my never used bright lipstick and smooch purple all over the walls. I will wink. I will run. I will sweat and I will stink. I will grow ugly eyebrows and write gushy poetries that don’t rhyme. I will fart so hard and loud that the universe around will burst into a blob of black ink on an Indian Minister’s wall.
I cannot stop till I am good. I will not.