I remember those shiny years. I carried the weight of every thought and expectation but my own. Then came the first disaster – and after that it was easy.
I was a source of disappointment, but in escaping their dreams, I had been released – and delivered to the brush and chisel.
A curled lip looks good on me. Eventually my canines would show. Now I see those lines settling in and they’re coming along nicely. Each groove bears its jewels. It is yet to be titled, but even now it is clear: surfacing as divine proof of time spent in delicious sin and my own sense of virtue.
Place a spotlight on this raised and ever-changing canvas for all to see. Expose every impasto of ecstasy and agony, transgression and sacrifice, and glory and failure. All serve to craft this into being.
The past is inescapable but time can bend on itself, playing the master creator of when past and present meet.
The sun is in her eyes, but she keeps climbing the tree with her bare and bruised legs covered in filth from the early morning puddles. She makes love in the moonlight and dances too close to the fire, her body intense and rhythmic. She sits along the cliff’s edge, face met with the ocean spray, pounding heart in chest, waiting on the company of thunder. It is here that strokes and shavings disappear and reappear. This is when we meet – sometimes we converge into something new.
This has been my homecoming. The years were merely a thread of events to bring me back again. Behold the fine mess that’s the road to more of who I’ve always been.