I was never a real student, I just pretended to be one as I floated the halls like a ghost those brief months in college (that felt like a eons). My heart was always heavy, my bed was usually cold, and what little sex I was willing to give was used up by other drunks like me. We couldn’t see farther than our own traumas and hangups, we were too artsy and annoying for our own good. None of it was any good. Art laced with drugs are good to usually only other people on drugs.
When I try to make something it turns to dust. When I let it come to me, to introduce itself out of the mess of the universe it’s beautiful. Clay and foam. Paint and pencil. India ink on acrylic. I should probably just piecemeal together the hodgepodge from my journals, online and composition notebook, and string it together. There probably is at least one novel there already - maybe two. I feel like I’m at the precipice and I’m not sure how to begin correctly. It’s all here, it’s all there. It’s all everywhere. Floating around already. Is it young adult? Do I take what I’ve written about my growing-ever-distant past? Or more recent - the move of a lifetime that took my heart and my sanity with it?
So much is beautiful to me. So much inspires me. I could write a thousand novels - so many different people live inside me (not really - I’m not Sybil - but the gist is given). I feel I need to simply begin. But who gets a shot at it first? Those Icelandic kids? The awkward, beautiful, and envious fourteen year old with a crush on her best friend? The southern me or the northern me? The ones who whisper from the before and after?