That wonderfully blissful moment when I realize I do not need anyone is also when I have the most love to give.
Nothing brings out the light in me more than a loved one who can accompany me in the dark.
Nearly everything I write is a deserted novel, poem or suicide note masquerading as a clever quip.
Almost everything the world has to offer leaves me floored. I cannot love by halves. I cannot see beauty without being moved to tears. I cannot feel understood without overwhelming gratitude. I cannot experience a work of art without ebullience. Life comes to me as a torrential downpour–I tilt my head back, open my arms and allow myself to be soaked.
I hasten a retreat into imagination not because I despise the rain, but to catch my breath, soothe my heart and recover my childlike eyes.
I was given a tiny pot of daisies when I moved into my apartment. They are plain yellow daisies–nothing especially beautiful about them. Were they in a large field of flowers they would look unremarkable.
Neither is there anything special about the tin pot in which they live. Left in the garden section of a home goods store, it would reside at the dusty bottom of a neglected clearance bin.
I love these flowers because they wilt every single day. And every single day a tiny splash of water brings them instantaneously back to life. They are beautiful because they are fragile and resilient. I care for them because they show me their hurt as well as their joy.
If these flowers were a person, they would be my friend.
Today I ate scrambled eggs with my fingers because I realized it would be rude for them to be eaten without first being touched. I imagined that I was seated at a large table with others who followed my lead. After eating, my guests joyfully smeared the egg remnants over the bodies of one another. Aroused by this, the touching led to kissing and everyone merged into a genderless sea of oily flesh. They erupted into mutual orgasm and proceeded to fall into a slumber at the table.
I gave my untouched utensils a cheeky grin and reveled in the Sadean mess I had created by neglecting them. Content that I had given my eggs their proper respect, I proceeded to wash the dishes.
When I call myself a dreamer I do not mean that I have goals or ambitions. My dreams have no end beyond themselves: they are pure imagination free from the constraints of reality; free from wanting. They are perfectly self-contained nothings that exist outside of time. If I have one ambition it is this: to be neither more nor less than a dream.