fragments of things I started to write with the theme consciousness in mind
Lana ate because first she was self conscious of the way her skin looked when she was a teenager. The kids called her names, so she went home and stole doughnuts from the breakfast pantry. Then she started to bake to make her feel better when she pants didn’t fit. She baked cupcakes and ate t hem after dinner
I can’t. I can’t. I can’t.
The repetition is familiar, a down beat like a clever song. The heart strings are so sore, tightly wound around words and thoughts and pure existing. I can’t. I can’t. There’s no sun anymore, it’s gone too soon. There’s no warmth, either. There’s just the death that surrounds us, brown leaves decaying in the ground. I can’t. What can’t I do? Nothing. Everything. Something. There’s no art anymore because it’s forgotten, buried in a junk drawer that hasn’t been used in months.
Meditation isn’t a creative act it’s a way to reason some sort of consciousness within yourself so how do you express the words the words the thoughts the jumble of everything scattered everywhere inside your mind when you sit with yourself and stare at the worn down furniture