#The Wire is throwing me all kinds of directions #control
There’s something in the air at home. Something infectious. Something that creeps into my brain and weighs down my head. Makes me tired. Apathetic. I can’t get myself to do any work. Can’t write anything. Read. Focus. Don’t know how to fix it. I’m just a paperweight for my bedsheets. Pretty much.
a beautiful beautiful ghost
i hope she never comes to life
a body of her own
our souls would disunite
“The pigeons of my conscience
Make shadows on the wall.
The cannibal that lives within my mind
Leaves no room for the imagination.
I regret just this.”
— A poem by Dolores, from Revolutionary Suicide by Huey P. Newton
My soul has grown deep like the rivers.
So, as a writer, I will show it to you with words:
My hair is shorter.