Matters

Matters

What is it that I want? If I need to carve, every corner, every tiny detail, what does it matter, realizing, feeling the urge, freeing myself from you and external needs.

What if I actually want to stop people in their tracks, but this time face to face? Anger in art, anger in writing, anger in touching myself.

What if I want to caress things, to touch them without them noticing my presence? Fragile contact, as if falling without ever letting go. Like suspended in the cosmos, held by an invisible magic.

What if we’re like light that merely outlines new angles, without transforming what’s projected? Perhaps without light, we don’t exist. When I think, there’s heat and cold, there’s wood, there’s metal, and harsh walls and broken glass. Torn, scraped, grazed paper, soaked in tears and spit.