November has a slow burn, uncovering some lost and ominous positivity- nestled deep between velveteen layers of silence and solitude. I’ve been reeling between strange impulses and reflections, wanting to spend hours in a subterranean fairy cavern and weave cloth from the cobwebs of unfinished stories. Cementing my resolve for a greater passion, a greater love.
I’ve got one eye outward and one eye turned inward, scanning strangers for clues, reading intentions, gauging how the space between our bodies feels. Reading the air. I’ve learned to trust in my peculiar magnetism, to follow feelings, but it never occurred to me that I could be following feelings that weren’t mine.
I am open, coated in a strange auric layer of hypersensitivity. I’ve dug deep into the worst, darkest, innermost crevices of my own soul, and spread out that messy material like thick silk- examined, plucked, trimmed and turned it around. Followed the primitive impulses that hijacked and overtook me, followed them into the void.
Regained my erotic grandiosity, my propensity to see god everywhere, my laughter. Glowing like an iridescent orgasm. Back to speaking in my native tongue, of weaving puzzle pieces together, of forming a map of this gargled, nonsensical and happily paranormal life I lead. Ready to run into foreign domains, hair trailing behind me, like the fire of all women who are blamed for burning things to the ground.