i need a break before i continue on.

i forget how public this shit is and all the stuff i write sometimes takes me somewhere else i wasn't even aware of and i need a moment to gather myself close my eyes, and get used to where i am.

i'd also innocently told james some stuff i was writing about on here, and when he winced and said he couldn't hear it, i remembered why brad wyman had become so important to me.

when he said once that he read everything, it told me i never made him wince. keep going. he could take it. bring it on.
and so i did. and in that there was more art and surprises and i was more free to unhide the secrets, and then i saw james, my father, everyone.

i still haven't been the same.

and so i have to pretend that brad wyman is still there somewhere, whether he reads or remembers me or not, even though we don't get along and have never even gotten along long enough to even meet without a fight, and it doesn't matter because it's still magic just writing to him and not feeling ashamed. no one else can matter. art is yourself, a scream from your truest self, out to just one person and maybe if i am true enough then people will only see themselves anyway, so i am hidden in plain sight.

i can't write to everyone blind.

please if i run into you, unless you're laura, don't tell me you keep up on this clog.

this is me private. we are private. do not talk about our pillow secrets outside in the light of day.

i have tried to skip between the world's colored, whore, class judgements of me on any given day like a cricket hopping between the raindrops and i need to focus on what i make of myself now.

e