I skipped six; it seemed too whole, too perfect and round. Seven’s better. Seven reminds me of jagged edges and howling winds and pretending to fly. Seven reminds me of last year when we danced to that song in your backyard and I couldn’t feel the ground. It reminds me of the salt on my fingers at the beach and that the world is round. It reminds me that people exist and that everyone was once a kid. Seven reminds me of love and art and how so many things connect in my brain. Seven reminds me of how stereotypical the radicals are, how everyone pretends. Like how I can tell when you’re reciting lines. I don’t like that. I don’t like dreaming violence every night. I don’t like waking up screaming. And yet you’ve never seemed so light to me, so changing. You’ve never seemed so free. But I don’t know what to say. I never know what to say when I’m awake.
‘You’ve never seemed like nothing. Now you’re light as air, supple as thought.’ Perfect. Did I yell? Did I yell at you? You matter enough to yell. Not many people matter that much.
I don’t know what to write. Maybe I’m not meant to know. Maybe I don’t like it. Maybe you don’t like it. I’m always talking to someone. I keep asking where this is going, whether it’s worth it, but I know it doesn’t matter. It’s making my head hurt a bit and I can almost hear my brain whirring like an engine. But I just need to stop crying, I just need to stop worrying and I need to start not being scared of the unknown. I can feel my head getting lighter. I have to remove those ideas and just be. Just be.
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