“the house shelters daydreaming, the house protects the dreamer, the house allows one to dream in peace.” - gaston bachelard
it has been ages since i was comfortable. the days have dissolved into lengths of aches and creaky elbows and rubbing of bones. writhing in the dirt, screaming up to the heavens with pupils wide and black, i begged for them to take me. i vomited sickly electric confessions and screamed for forgiveness. but they did not come. i was not ready.
my life until that night had been busied spinning nests around myself, burrowing into them and calling them home. comfortable, temporary lies. pacifiers for the interval i spend in flesh. feathers and stones follow still me to bed. my pillows smell of the other side.
set fire in the snow, my sister and i did, building our army’s first home base with sage and laughter and textbooks. between dizzy nights and crisp mornings, we hung tapestries wall to wall and let scarves transform our lamps into jellyfish. candles and age-spotted mirrors, incense and teapots, books and a sort of forced whimsy piled neatly along the hall. chipped fine china littered with careless makeup and powdered pills, bong water bleary with paint and sprouting brushes kept the impending darkness at bay. we...
