{2} never alone.

{26}

i start off the day swimmingly, my mood as high as my head.

i see white, a lot of it, my entire room is white.

my mother is flitting this way and that, she fussing and fretting and doing things worth forgetting.

i decide to flit with her,
because i've always loved the idea of being able to fly away from my problems.

and thinking about problems weighs ones wings down,
thinking about problems ripples through the pool of white.

thinking about problems made the problems be attracted
like static to static

and the figure made of static heard himself being summoned and made his way into my thoughts

the static figure decided to pick up a vile of ink and flick one drop into my pool of white.

and you say, it's just one drop, at least he didn't pour the whole thing.

but that's the thing about ink, ink spreads,
like fear.

the ink made my water clear,
the ink revealed that my pool was simply emptied and filled again
my pool had been contaminated by static and i decided to start anew
but i think what i've learnt is that
ink stains
and one can paint over,
scrub,
refill,
rebuild
as much as they want
but a stain
never
goes
away.

so i've decided to become an artist
and to major in stain art
because my stains define me and i let them
and even if i don't enjoy what i do
i enjoyed seeing the static man happy
and i enjoy making people think and imagine
so what's a sacrifice of my happiness,
if it only resurfaces itself in others?

***

this was inspired by cisphobia 's book Pompeii, it's amazing and you should probably go
read it.

- nancy