I once wrote tying myself to snow angels on the first day of spring, and this is what happens when you just refuse to allow unchangeable things to remain as is natural to them. It is what happens when you refuse to accept that you lost something you might never have had, and now you want it so bad life itself itches, your glance on everything and nothing at all, and wherever you go it will be right there, laughing at your quiet part of the world.
The city sucks my energy and spits souvenirs for the tourists to grab, bragging with the corners of their mouths, blinking behind the goggles of the western world. I have come here to find myself like so many others.
The night is there for you to touch it. It was created for this purpose, in a madman attempt to make you take that hand of yours and put it around its waist, grasping life by the hip, running hand in hand until there is no air left, and first then take a breather along the shores of what will come next.
The sun is high now, tripping on the bodies lined up along the shore, and the shore is there for those bodies, a shoulder for them to forget about whatever winter brought, and I am there because winter brought me down to the goddamn core, and the core burns even the tannest of souls.
It is awesome because I am growing now, for real, and not just standing on my toes pretending I am taller, and it is great in a very frightening way. It is great because I can feel myself evolving, developing one aspect or another for every inch I move forward, breaking my comfort zone like I used to break glasses.
There is something with the way art moves you; real art, that is, the kind that rushes across your spine like the fingertips of whoever clasps your heart hardest, spotting your cheeks and laying out a carpet of salty sand for your toes to dive deep into, your eyes closing as rainbows fucking fall all around you, a tremble and then the inevitable stillness.
Then came the other thoughts, my faith in humanity pierced and stereotypes rising in its wounds, and I shook my head because there was nothing else to do. Shit like this happens to people like me, and there are lessons to be learned in anger and spite and those other emotions we push so deep into our hearts that they stay there. This is another tool for greed to create itself.
But how can we find ourselves if we are not there, if we are just playing out a role and popping pills erasing who we once were? It cannot be done. It cannot be done and so we pretend some more and then we seize to think.
I will stay and use my pain to do good, to make things that have never been made before and twist my words until they become extraordinary, standing like awesome pieces of shit that refuse to be forgotten no matter how much the world changes.
What is truly rebellious is to do what you want to do, and do so not as a reaction to something in the current system, but simply because it is the way you want to do things, because it is the right way to do things.
The creative revolutionary will see the wonder in the smallest innovation, the power of a cup of coffee, and the endless possibilities dwelling in between the words of books and pieces of poetry, scattered across the earth. She will not react but revolt...
So choose goddamn it. And choose wisely. Because you are the one who decide if this earth is going to be one huge ass factory or a blooming marketplace where we know exactly what we buy. And don´t say natural means expensive. It is cheaper than buying yourself a new body and pay for a new earth.
We should live to produce our very best, create our very best, and make our lives a sheer outcry of what this very best does to our hearts. We should let it be spelled out across our ribs and tattoo our fingertips, so that everything we touch bears the mark of what we are meant to do and be and leave for our children to look upon with supernovas dripping from their retinas.
And we are not dolls. We are goddamn human beings, created in the dirt from where the seeds grow to become trees of fucking everything; a place where we were once free from strings and three hundred feet neon philosophies, a place where no one but ourselves said how we went about to become what we needed to be
It took me a year to realize my mistake, at which point I gathered all my shit and reached for the jar, opening the lid with nails that shook in worried anticipation. When the dreams were out, I smiled and let them tangle around my ring finger as if I were promising my beloved to always be around.
She mumbled the taste of strawberries into my red eyes and had lips that smelled like ripe avocados picked directly from the tree. Her hand went to my breast pocket and when I woke up there was a note and a crack where I had sewn myself shut. When I came home I burned my finger and wrote bad poems I threw in a shitty bathroom stall on Washington Square.
Then I ran back because I preferred fire to the graying ash.
We live in these intoxicants, taking cigarette breaks from our coffee breaks to get through another five minutes at work. We daydream of five o'clock and thrash our books for a fistful of prescriptions, drain energy drinks to get up and pills to come down and nail our eyes to television screens that throws plastic membranes over our retinas.
What I want you to do is to spit out that conformity and hand back the guidelines with a smile. Do not throw them, and do not stomp on them with your heavy boots. Just say “No, thank you. I already have my own.”