“Why does insanity always twist the great answers?
Because only tormented persons want the truth.”

my will to live solely stems from my will to write and that is it. even the face of things I love isn’t motivating enough at times in despair. imagine something foreign taking over your body and then teaching it how to talk. it’s maddening, literally, whatever is in here now.

When I was very young, I used to stare at my closet sort of squinting. I first had this ugly brown accordion style door on it that my parents eventually replaced with a soft, translucent pink curtain that had tiny little circles all over to texture it. My closet had clothes and my bookshelf. When I closed my eyes, I could see the curtain create patterns. Well, I squinted and I could see colors and I began to emote not through me but through the child I imagined. Well, back up. That may be complex.  Imagine what happens after you look at the sun: you get those circles, those oil slick dots, in your retina. I could do that by closing my eyes hard and then opening them fast. Or pressing on my eyes and then opening them. The curtain would look like it was moving and bleeding light. I could feel things move from it. When I wanted to be alone, I just laid on my bed staring at the closet.

 I imagined a small girl that looked like me at the edge. She couldn’t really leave the room. Like a twin sister. But better than me. She existed right next to me, parallel, everywhere I went. But she couldn’t exactly leave. And she was better than me.

The difference between her and I was her hair. She had long flowing beautiful hair. We told each other stories. We dared each other to do things.

“the woman who walked out of walls” or “the mirror”

“I don’t intend in this,  to set up any sort of hierarchy, simply to say that I read to feel addressed: the complement, I suppose, of speaking in order to be heeded.”

–Louise Gluck

nooo she cant die before she finishes the book. i mean L OH L yeah thats the joke

I am somewhere close to the edge and 

the last thing to go is the fear of death. that’s the fifth. kind of a bonus. and being labeled batshit or dramatic is a part of it.

 the nodule in my throat. that was the first to go. but the first thing that happened was I choked. the second thing that happened was my legs went numb. the third was my breath being stuck in my throat and the steady rise of water. 3:13. that’s the formula we are looking at. the audience is buried beneath a lake of ice until I need them again. wait back up there’s no order here. 

ok, the first thing to go was my mind. thank god. the second thing to go was my throat full of acid. quite literally caustic. the third thing to go was my breath. the audience is six feet under a snow covered bank and im quite fine with it now.

get on with then.

but I snap back. I will tell it as I please. there are three things that happen in order and there are thirteen deaths I see. 

 the visions, the cabin with MS the pandemic with the robberies, the police on the swat team aiming at me. the suicidal thoughts. the jail. the mental hospital. the women ganging up. the bridge and car accident. the bombing. the music and the seizure and the sweet sweet drowning. there’s an alligator somewhere. 

“13 stories: the woman who saw her own death”