You build your own dimension, tape symbols to all four of your walls- of omens, stars, roses, the celestial bodies and their most intricate pathways. You build your own dimension, seal it, proclaim it- in hope that you can shut out the demolition of the planet. Or rather, invoke it.
You feel like you owe yourself some reprieve, that these four walls have seen enough, heard enough. Something in the determined, enthusiastic cadence of your voice, your animated commitment to self assurity, you could convince anyone of anything. So you pick leisure, let your music spill around and take on the appearance of something half feral. You decide that you belong in your own arms before anyone else. Your love is the greatest. That most people bore you. You take deep breaths. Surrendering to half spent daydreams. Looking for the thread in your emotionality that connects your body to your soul.
January feels like culmination. Insisting.