Six pages of questions eighteen year-old self wrote to Eskridge.
What do orphaned teenagers do in this world?
What do orphaned 40 year olds do?
Where does the light go when it’s eclipsed?
Is darkness really darkness?
Is light really light?
Can people not understand trauma unless they experience it?
Experience it long enough to see it from the other side ?
Does trauma lead to higher perspective and understanding?
It’s a chaotic world creating order.
It’s an ordered world disordered in devil-mode.
Never make love unless it’s pure and true.
Purity and truth are only things can’t see through.
Words come and fingers type.
Who needs thought into these things?
Who needs thought into who gets it?
Anyone could see this.
Anyone could be this.
Time just travels into more time.
All the goodness of anxiety.
All the anxiety of goodness.
Transmutation to seen and spoken verbs.
It’s conscientiousness sometimes.
It’s creative artistry others.
It’s rare when they combine.
And here I am:
not whole, not broken.
in-between the hyphen in-between.
This is life after death.
The eclectics of my possessions…
These archaic remnants from past esoteric life.
How these things shaped my world, my family, what was once my home.
Now these things shape another,
Create new homes for others.
Who indulges in tradition?
Life’s poetics shape my condition,
as I look within and see renewed position.
I’m my own rendition
releasing rampant inhibition.
Downsize to simplicity,
Upgrade flow in synchronicity.
Meaning escapes most who mean something.
Meaning substantiates most who are something.
Inner world’s a tired child torn a part,
Sighing through liquid crystals.
Younger conscience, she had dreams
with romantic, loving, familial themes.
She expressed them via journal;
There was no trust to express them external.
Through these dreams she committed to manifest,
She now finds these dreams she wants to contest!
She’s found herself amongst an albatross.
Life is not clear-coated: it’s semi-gloss.
Been learning life lessons all across the board.
And what reward do you have to reap for it?
The by-products of possession and experience
as archaic remnants of your life from someone’s death?
Empathizers empathize empathy between them.
Sympathizers sympathize sympathy to sigh in.
Wouldn’t a little love suffice?
Except only when you need more than that?
And is it you don’t want ideologically
but you need archetypically?
Some semblance of belonging?
Someone’s eyes to gaze into
where you know they’ll hug you back
because they’re not a photograph?