i am thinking about mitochondria.
sometimes i feel that language is all that i am and if i transcend my words i am nothing.

that is either the purpose or it isn't.

i wish i were the graffiti on the train. i wish to be colorful and permanent and for my movement to be involuntary. i wish to be a splash of here or there, a second glance or a first one.

i rearrange the artwork on my wall to find that artwork doesn't appease my emotional appetite. in one corner or another, it's still flat and sulking. and there will always be someone who loves it more than me-- who birthed it from their most humane longing and nurtured its texture, crafted its lines, never once neglected it on the floor for the cat to tear into. i need my own beauty.

i really don't have anything to say. except for i just really don't own anything that matters to me.
and also to him that i am alive so there is no need to fill his self-obligated duty.

word of the day: selfish.
if you look at it enough it gurantees blame on someone's part.