At some point I learned that without significant pain to weigh me down, my struggle to rise was weak. My anxiety would sit on my chest for days and pick away at particles of sleep, making midnight til dawn a menagerie of dreamstuff, cut with an abrupt, sweat-soaked awakening. I would imagine bugs darting across my legs like cars on an open freeway, white rental walls crumbling around me, black mold dusting my lungs toxically. There was something about 2:48 am that would creep up on me like a summer storm. Quick, merciless, forceful - but over by daylight.

I worry about the night, or the night makes me worry.

I think loneliness occurs when you have no one to look you in the eyes and convincingly say that everything is going to be ok.

Chan Marshall, 2012.

There is no place for escape from your own life. You may create wormholes upon wormholes, but you eventually arrive at the same departure. Your perspective may be the only control you hold, so it’s best to make it a good, honest attempt at seeing things through no particular lens. You do what you can, with what you have. The only salvation may be to feel the collective, inherited despair of the world through individual feelings that converge with one another, so presumptuously, so violently, but scream of the same fate: “I am misunderstood. Every creature has felt the anxiety, the pain we pay for the price of life.” The cost of feeling and reacting. Our very life-force drives us to murder each other over mere details. We are the black-and-white compartments of a grey area society. We are the miserable by-products of secondhand accounts, never firsthand experiences. We were taught to look and thereupon judge; we were never taught to see. We are fools, and it is forever foreseen.

I feel not necessarily doomed
but Privileged
to have access to search this planet
and all its meaningful
meaningless quips
for the encompassing miracles
or phenomena
or supernatural
micro moments
that define such a
existence as
t h i s .

Young Kathleen Hanna

Young Kathleen Hanna

I could choose to let obstacles achieve their own dream

To act as a dam(n), a wall,
a barricade to the verb of “being”

My weakness would fashion a drain
A flush of potential, a succubus on the pores of personal success

but Success is largely public, it’s time to make it private again.

I’m somewhere
in between



August 9th

Brooklyn is
one window
in the August night

Half open
Never painted shut
(at least not for long)

A pink mist niche
just past Lorimer Street
Keys hidden under yellow
flowers, somewhere on Halsey

Clementines, low blood sugar
I feel dreamily awake
and irreparably exhausted

All in a rush
All at attention
At once & for once.