I speak with intention. you cannot put too much stock in the written word; before the sentence is finished, the thought is already changing. a ritual can take your whole life. I think this is why I detest and seek writing at once. whatever charred remains I seal in its scrawled coffin, I lose the true physicality of the moment just by remembering it inaccurately. documenting it inaccurately. it is a rush and nothing more.
I wrote my intentions on a piece of paper and then I drown them in the bath for solstice. I held them under water. I wanted to see what water would do. what I wrote to let go. if anyone asked how I was doing, I would say fine.
a note in my phone from today reads this: soul some god infusion, a pink blue violet snake winding up my spine. I started looking for a sun and started running into headlights. Bless all of this god for it is your creation, and I am only one of your created. I help you make things. I am God when they hear me. when I started looking for myself I started breathing from your lungs and found an ineffable love.
another note from today reads this: “one time a guy fucked me while I was sleeping.”
I know I smoke too much weed currently hoping I will figure it out. what am I trying to say? just trying to find the right maantra.
Don’t rush into yourself.
I sink back into the tub, cup of earl gray on the side. it is steaming and full of honey. sometimes I pretend a man is there with me. asking me questions. egging me on. nodding. and I’m responding with stories.
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