I hide out behind words. It’s easy. How I am feeling or not feeling or hiding or sharing can all be written out. I can pen my deepest fears using any literary device I please and it can be deciphered to epitomize a courageous act. I can write about the sunset and many will think it heartbreak and pain, and truly it is, for the loss of sun splattered skies and sweltering asphalt is something if not poetic. I can draft resistance into odes and make eulogies the best 14 lines a sonnet could offer.

I hide out. Simple. And it’s effective how any structure can come to my aid. It’s strange how punctuating or not releases two very different drafts of the same mind, like I have cloned myself and the second version is equal if not above the first.

I hide out behind my insecurities and never truly sympathize with the need to be seen beyond an introductory verse of self-interest and quickly written biographies. I can tell you that I hate the world and you would never believe it if I smiled at the end. Or maybe I could apologize profusely and spill hot tears which ruin flesh and mean nothing.

I hide out like an ostrich, head stuck in the sand, because I am afraid of failing and falling and false starting. And I know it makes no sense, this fear, this hidden decadence, and this distasteful cocktail of spirits and visions and opportunities lost regardless.

I hide out behind words, read fiction into oblivion, lose myself in stanza and verse and give ear to the spoken and chants and slams and dubs and raps. I mean if we are to save the world don’t we have to find that voice amongst the noise that presents itself logical and empathetic and selfless and real and transcendent?

I hide out. Immerse myself in an ocean and drown, for the rebirth of self requires washing. Requires a calling. Requires a purpose. Requires a symbol. Requires an offering. Dive head first and open my mouth to speak of and to the creatures of its belly. Gargle deep and gasp for air. I am bubble charms and gillyweed and mermaids. I mean come on, when the ocean calls to you, there is no sinking.

Thirty-three down, nineteen to go...



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