Trip Three

     I cannot recall a single time in life where I woke up and immediately began crying. I’m not saying this to hurt anyone or to ride out on a guilt trip disguised as a white horse. I want everyone to understand what COSA18 has meant to me this past—almost—year. It’s a place I can turn to where I can paint my feelings away in the only form I don’t ravenously think—words.
     My thoughts craft themselves as images, likely a candidate reason why math has proven to be difficult for me my entire life. I cannot recall a day from history when words floated through my head. It’s all images, pictures, metaphors for real life. Island of self-deceit, a galaxy, the abyss… these are three forms in which my inner self manifests to represent the core of whatever I am. It’s not consciously chosen, and I’m positive it was helped along by what I know and believe in. Thank you, subconscious.

     I am a single galaxy existing in multiple events of space-time waiting to collide with another who considers themselves just as great or greater as I manage. I want a collision of worlds, absolute annihilation of the horrid and welding of the better, perfect globes. Dwarf stars and exploding thus collapsing supernovas: worm holes to a better place.

     “Lost on an island,” a common description of one’s life journey. A home base, a safe landing space for the extreme in betweens. A location for my tightrope far enough away from the cheering and jeering crowds... I don’t dance for entertainment or praise, but to prove to myself that I still can after everything that’s occurred. The sands are deceitful and card-carrying mood rings, but how they are so tiny grains of me.

     Grasped best—the abyss. My dwelling basement, but I created it there in its place and depth, adjusting the light bulbs as I move along. Left in its existence in case I've lost sight of the importance of life, should I ever need a gaze for recollection of demons, I flick a coin in and watch the city burn beneath me once more.