Damages

I read what I want to read. Most of the time that ends up being myself. Most of the time I don’t read what I want to read. I’m obsessed. I am compulsive towards putting things in their proper places. Thus I am back again here. And it really has set me back, but it has to be considered a means of moving me further along at the same time.

I’ve got social media anxiety. That’s what Piper calls it, but neither her nor I think that’s the best term for what I’m dealing with. It’s more of an unwillingness to commit. There are all of these sources birthing my words. I’ve got a small sliced up audience. But I’m learning. I’m trying to grow. Trying to solve this case. There’s a cork board in front of me and I’m laying out the enemies. Follow my thread and I’ll show you God. Can you see my Current Tarot? I call it Fugue State Press. It’s all in how you place your spread and check your fate as much as in how you pick your stream and check your feed.

The salt in my stream continues trying to take me over. The eyes in the back of my head crusting over at the tear ducts. I’m learning to work through this. Rooting my multiple selves in the fixed nature of Scorpio to develop a strong base. Beyond ello, WordPress, Medium, Twitter. A core human being, branching out into the universe.

Piper asked me last night if I have any medication. I told her that I don’t, but I do want to be in a mental hospital sometimes, just for someone to put me in my place. Take me out of the rat race. Keep me in line. Show me the light. No pills. Unless a friend gives them to me and nobody but truly trustable friends monitoring my usage. Of course, that’s also risky, never knowing when I’m going to become a wreck, wrapping myself around street signs like a couple of favorite shirts slipped off. Pills for my pills as there then is no choice but committal.

Question becomes how to whisper this storm? Grabbing ello and taking it with me. Onto the next level, and I assure you, this is on another one. I am my fans and the worship that I've harbored. Small potatoes. Mixed into the minced meat. True of God.

That’s where the blood though there is. Here in this globular egg I’m lugging. Picked from the stars like a sticky berry. We go to court, multiple selves working in tandem to row the boat. Bombed Denmark into Paris, New York, Tokyo, London. I tuck the judge back inside of me, a little fuel for the furthering of our flag.