February 8th, Year 20

I want to know what drives a person to the depths of desperation. I want in on their final thoughts, and what it feels like to be free, right before they are nothing at all. I want to know what it feels like to blend in, before the explosion. I want to be the sun, and the moon, and the stars, and the ocean tides. I want to be alive, without having to end it all to understand it. I want that knowledge.

I want to have the blue-eyed charmer, who is all false bravado and cocaine addiction, thrust inside of me. I want to never see him again, after a disappointing fuck. I want the regret of not using a condom, worrying about pregnancy and sexually transmitted diseases, finding myself clean of illness and motherhood, promising to never do it again, only to do it again.

I want milk in my fridge, no cereal. Cereal in the cupboard, sour milk. I want to tell Megan to fuck off. I want to be prettier than the last girlfriend. I want people to stop telling me I am interesting. I want to drive to Arizona and smoke tobacco with Charles, who goes by Dances With Thunder, ever since he survived a plane crash and his first wife. I want three dogs and a Jeep Patriot. I want to win. I want to lose. I want to stop having the kind of lessons that tattoo themselves into my soul. I want a cabin in the woods, with all the luxuries of a house in the city. I want someone to tell me everything will be okay, and I want them to mean it. I want to stop making shitty cakes. I want to make mud pies and watch cartoons. I want to love my mother. I want to trust my father. I want to save my brother. I want to be bigger than my name. I want to believe in God. I want to stop telling men they remind me of Lord Byron, when it is me, and it has always been me. I want to learn how to swim. I want to be the kind of person that appreciates India, instead of resenting its very existence.

At the center of it all, there is a strong pulse.

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February 8th, Year 20

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