Internal thoughts have a way of surfacing, lingering, and then diving to the nadar of my existence, only to break through my encephalon, carrying crayons. I must have a window to spend time staring out of. It creates a division of mental gymnastics, pulling thread through my thoughts and gluing glitter across the nature on the other side of the pain.
I now know why when in school, if placed in a room with no window, I would leave. It was mandatory.
November 4th, 2017
We are not dying. We are dead. Stretched as horizontally as the oak, broken from the weight of its branches and the shallowness of it’s roots.
Decadence and depravity, yoked through years of Southern sun and sin, have scraped our bones across creosote roads, pine tree, linear trails and interstate freeways; choking the life from our bloodline.
And yet there is the belief that one must “protect the family finances.”
Our dusty death, as life, has never been traditional.
Yet, Southern. Faulkner knew us well.