A Season of Winter

I have always considered myself ontologically independent from all things and I attribute none of what I have to you—except maybe my indifference. Tell me, does indifference kill simplicity? Wine is thicker than blood when it comes to you. While you think he's worth something, he thinks you're worthless. If it's a choice between you and liquor, he's always going to choose liquor. But  that's  the kid you're invested in, the one you're most proud of.  You chose your golden child knowing he's pyrite. To you, passivity is bliss. What's another fuck-up when your pregnancy was fucked to begin with? You should have just let him die; it would have saved you years of enablement. He is a perverse form of  fuckery.  He could have been a father. And  you  encouraged it. It's a good thing she miscarried—just when I thought manifestation wasn't real. It's sad how your illusory recognition and faith are all he has right now, and still, it amounts to n...

I miss quiet moments with myself, when my wit creates prose, not solutions. In these minutes of solitude, I'd free-write something like "You put the art in artificial" while listening to music redolent of my tears, like  Stelle E Luna  or  Hanniou . My mind wouldn't fester at the thought of pending status or wage claims or mending some  half-assed entrepreneur's operational dysfunction at minimum wage. I'd exist in the context of my craft. I'd be an artist again.  I consider every person I've ever known, loved, and lost—all those chapters of my life that ended with me hanging from the cliff. I gaze at this broad selection of muses, all of whom I've revived with lyricism. That's when I realize that the boy I miss most is myself.  I used to be the artist, before I became the concept of some equation, a variable to be solved. I used to feel love; now I feel myself yearn for it. Part of me feels at home here. And part of me thinks home is something...