I will show you fear in a handful of dust....

The museums must be full at this point. Nothing but old corpses of memories and acts, aged paper and broken voice recordings. Cemetaries, keepers of ghosts. Brittle, old and frayed, we hold on to things in a hopes of finding definition and redemption. We are explained by history: we are who they are, were. The museums must be full at this point. Bones in boxes, and pieces in jars; all we are are a series of collections and numerical catalogs. I will try to find myself in Tut's tibula, but it is the sawed tooth of the brontosaurus that I find relation to. Clutter, my mind is it's own museum. I hold on to the sweet phrases everyone utters, as though replaying them will change history, change who I am. Knowing and not knowing, I hope to find truth, but take salvage in lies. I am my own monster; maybe I'd rather not know, a brush and a microscope in hand; examine every strand, every piece you know. Maybe I'd rather not be shown on exhibit; the childrens' hands stain the Plexi glass window and I am sore from being pinned and glued into every motion I have ever regretted. But I like it this way, a spectacle and feat, a thing to awe at and coo, "I came from that?" Vindictive and repetitive, I am Napoleon's plume and St. Joan's lock, run children, run.
I must go on standing.
The dust settles. It will conquer all. Eventually, yes, but it will be match to the death. When the match hits the tinder, just let it catch, let it burn. Let the bones crackle, let the paper ash, let the victories and acts disappear. The museum will burn, and with that, I will be free again.
Fear the ancient, fear the past, it is nothing but a lie. A story told by the war's winner. Burn the museum; the truth will be free.




I do this tango where I take two steps forward and three back. It's interesting. Sometimes its three forward, two back. Depends on the day. The pattern is more like walking in circles. I'll get it somehow. I just have to. Two weeks til classes start. I am anxious and sad; anxious to make a good impression and start and sad that I will barely have any tales to bring back with me. I have become one of my fears: a bore. I never wanted to lead a life like this, however I am grateful. Two legs, two arms and two eyes, I will get somewhere.

Here's to revival!
xoxo