Although most of my life is spent alone, being alone scares me. It cedes the control of my heart. I wrote to make my thoughts commodities I can control. From my emptiness and fear, I weave my puppet strings, rubbing against my callused hands. And the world will dance. And the world will obey.
Other than how to spell it, I know next to nothing about dada. I’ve read no Gertrude Stein. I’ve only known who I wanted to be since I was 31. Of course, the same could be said about when I was 25. When I was 21, I was known primarily as a smoker.
I can take a much deeper breath now. I’m looking into prayer as a way out. I just want to have some place to put life. My feet are whispering conversations with the city’s concrete.