If you don’t hear from me, it is because, for whatever reason, some rogue train has started in my head. It is an old, mercurial machine. What happens when it starts? I scratch my head (both sides), I pick up the knife (and touch it to the table). I rub my toes against any surface I can find. I am a glass of water waiting to be disturbed. I dream about my house, rooms I never knew were there. I dream about sex with people I don’t want, about torture by hammers. I don’t shower. I make a mistake. I am disgusting, dangerous. I cut myself. Or else I am beautiful. I take 18 selfies and dance naked in the mirror; I am a genius. I masturbate. I post a picture. I get on a plane and think it into the sky, clench my fists and hope I don’t think the word “down.” I hope we crash, says my brain.
I look at the clock. I am dehydrated. I read my poem. I hate myself, how the sentences always start with “I.”
I wake up and the world has changed. There is magic in the trees, the birds are speaking. I have an idea. I lose it. I buy men’s deodorant and wear it every day. I am convinced that something beautiful is just around the corner. Is it you? I speak and it is not me speaking, write and it is not me writing; I am connected, everything is. I am learning a lesson. I am having a revelation. The world has something to tell me—it winks like it knows I’m watching, and cares. My passion is a gift I like to give that sometimes no one asked for, or so my therapist says. You could keep unwrapping forever.
I sleep past noon. And the walks between responsibilities are always the hardest; for months, the sound of my feet crunching the snow is all there is. I have a dream. I have a nightmare. I wonder what it is that makes me different every season. The moon expands in a purple sky. I am close, close, as close as I will ever be to knowing.