Arrival + Gash

The way my chuck taylors make a hollo thud and the plants overgrown in the crux of the curb and the street. When the rain starts how those little roots cling against the waves headed to the storm drain. I never want to go back anywhere, never want to be in a state of rushing to return. Even when I head home I am not returning but arriving again. Maybe that’s toxic. That inability to settle into something, always hungering for the new. Maybe that’s toxic too. When I’ve had the experience, when I’ve met the person, had the plate, I am content to package them away in reverence and seek out something new.

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I had a dream there was a gash in my forearm so deep I could reach my fingers into the flap. Blood was not gushing but emptying like the middle pour of a five gallon bucket. Nothing hurts but there’s confusion as to ho this ended up happening. There’s this lacking, where is the pain? How much longer will the gash be there because the wound is quite distracting. I’m not sure what I’m to do but this is a nuisance.