Maybe you house an industrial furnace in your chest, maybe the walls of your skin are two feet of glass in three layers like a vacuum flask - it doesn’t help; one night you wake up in bed, blankets where they always are, and you’re cold. Some clear morning in summer, even - well and truly chilled - flying in the face of so much you held factual like in that moment the universe isn’t so sure either.
Every so often - maybe every week or so - I look at my archive and draw total blank on what I post, like what I actually want to put up here. I get this feeling that I don’t make any sense on here that sort of looms over whenever I think of anything to put up. Then the only feedback I get is that what comes out is pretty coherent and I guess okay quality-wise and I’m just never sure how that happens.
If an outfit would be comfortable enough for me to fall asleep on a bench wearing it makes up a pretty decent portion of how I choose what to wear.
It still jars me whenever I take off this particular jacket to find I’m not nude underneath.
What I tell death (we don’t really speak much) nowadays is what I tell anybody that wants me to stop breathing - ‘you need to pay for that; I’m going to make you earn it’. I mean you keep your head steady low, ear to the ground, but you keep moving, you don’t just bend over the blocks.
You are safe harbour and thundering fire and wandering streams.
You are everything you will ever need of yourself.
You are everything you need yourself to be.
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