Begins the last few days in this fairy house in the misty, magical, redwood mountains. The redwood tattoo couldn't be more meaningful, couldn't be more inked deep in my mind. Out of all the places I could have gotten a tattoo, I got it carved into my Achilles heel. I've written so much about what I was looking for in California. But boy! did she have other plans! Here I am, after all that, sitting on this living room floor, dying. This life I dreamed of, I've created with my own hands and lived, decided to leave behind, like most of my paintings. Sitting in the epicenter of this storm that has been brewing for years, sitting still while the world breaks apart a piece at a time, swirls up in the wind, and dances around me; until I join them and spiral my way out of all this. The pain(t) melts and drips down; the canvas getting empty, again, once again.
With all your smiles, your light, your good little heart, how can you do wrong? How can anything go wrong? How can you end up in a bad place? That's not what you create. With the words and colors of your mind, your sheer imagination, and your eye to see the most curious and, therefore, beautiful things in seemingly unimaginable spaces, how can it go wrong? This hope you have is not for nothing. You just can't see it right now in this mist, under this storm cloud that's covering the whole of you. Losing hope is the easy thing to do. Holding on to it is the true test. You are a dreamer. So, fuck it, fine. Dream. If that's what you can do best now, then do it to your best. Give it all you got and Dream. Feel that dream because Dreams are possibilities. Nothing stops here. Time and tide, they keep moving on and on and on. You can't stop walking this journey you've started, not right now, not when you know there are many cabinets of curiosities waiting just for you ...
Everything I do here feels like the last one. That's how I enjoy all of them. That's how the anger is kept on watch. The parties, the trips, the singing, the movie-watching, the cooking, the eating, the cleaning, the lovemaking, and the fucking, I should extend that philosophy to all moments, no exceptions. But the more I stay, I feel like staying a little more. I forget everything that assured me to leave; I begin to doubt all the proof so concretely piled up heavy in my head. But the heart... That's when he comes to help, stirring the muddy waters of my emotions, exhuming the almost faded, untrusted memories, and replaying the same chords on different octaves. I feel lost and blank, in limbo; neither in the cacoon nor outside, but caught up halfway out, on its own sticky walls. Death is tough. Especially the kind where you are both the dying and the mourner. That feels like the most humanely painful thing for a self. It's a fresh hell for an empath: a volcanic ...
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