"Don't question why she
needs to be so free.
She'll tell you its the
only way to be"

Escaping the clutches of strip malls and deafening black and white noise,
we found a patch of earth to call our own.
Following 37 to 69. Breakfast in heaping amounts.
A little green tent and stubborn, unforgiving fires.
We traveled up river in a silly, little boat;
the sun swallowing the current.
The bottoms of my feet, blackened with dirt.
Mysterious bruises gracing every inch.
Lying on the edge/laying on the edge, underneath
the endless sky of burning dust, making choices without reason.
Shedding my clothes by the sea, running and jumping
spreading my arms like makeshift wings.

I had forgotten how many stars are in the sky.
I was lucky enough to see them all. I lost count.

It hit me while sitting Indian style on a basement floor,
listening to folk music, tapping my fingers steadily on a beer can,
clicking the shutter and shaking the lens.
Nestled into my human back rest, I thought to myself,
"I could be happy here."

There we were, reciting those three words in character.
But I had no idea I would be saying them off stage, when the curtain fell.
I'm not ready to say them or hear them, but I'm feeling them.
It's a tough distinction to make.

The morning after will never be as much fun again.
Jumping on the bed, clothes and blankets strewn upon the floor,
inquisitive stares and shielded eyes.
"You two are perfect for each other" she said.
And in that moment, topless, Pat Benatar playing in the foreground,
he with a yo-yo in one hand, a beer in the other, I had to agree.

Within the past few days some of the worst possible things one person

can say to another person have been said to me.
Within the past few days some of the most loving things one person
can say to another person have been said to me.
I am completely raw. I am completely guarded.
Who am I to believe?

Seeing my face and my body plastered in newspaper print, scattered about
the town is truly a surreal feeling. And I realize calling something surreal
is often times considered cliche, but it's the only word that can skim the surface
of how it makes me feel. The fact the so many people are proud
of me and support me is truly overwhelming.
I don't see how I am in any way deserving of such love.

The thing I hate the most is all I have to offer. Or so it seems.
It scares me to think that once people look past
my porcelain shell, they will be devastated to find nothing but emptiness.

I wonder what people thought of it.
I wonder if people I knew back then,
saw it and thought about how they used to know me.
I wonder if they wish they still knew me.
I miss everyone that vanished.

I wrote some letters.
When a conflict arises, my spoken words often fail me,
usually because of my relentless and biting tongue.
So, I write a letter. I feel safe within the lined margins.
She needs time.
I told her I will do anything to repair the damage I have done.
I don't think she'll let me back in. But I won't let her give up on me.

Synchronicity is my most recent fascination.
The world isn't nearly as big as I thought.
The more people I meet, the more people I realize I've always known.

I've come to realize, despite my past and my present problems, that I may
easily be one of the luckiest people ever to live. I say this only because
I am completely undeserving of the things I have and the people that love me.
But at least I understand that I've done nothing to deserve this life.
I promise that I am going to put forth exhausting efforts to earn this happiness.
I want to work for it. I want to fight against what I've come to expect.
I need this struggle, or I will surely disappear.

For the first time in months, I am completely alone.
The house is still, with no promise of visitors.
The sound of the fan whirring, cats claws tapping against wood floor
and the delicate noises of my empty stomach
are orchestrating a symphony of restless distress.
This life is a stranger.