I dream of lost friends, violent acts, wet floors, seductive invitations. People who seem lost float in and out of this fast-paced life that I have slowly become content with. At times I get sucked in and have trouble accurately mapping out my strange evolution, a series of circles on the page – uncontrolled, imperfect, rough circles constructed from segments that drift in one direction, loop around and somehow always find a way back to their shaky origins. Regardless of these unstable spirals, I can convince myself that I am evolving, slowly, painfully, marking each step along pure white wall that screams to be marked with tears, blood, colour, skin, cartilage, muscle, hair, grains of illuminated neurons, slowly dying. The bottom of my legs are bruised and soiled as people run around me on the pavement and I walk slowly through the wet earth. Adults longing to be children, children pretending to be adults, loving, using, crying, laughing, remembering, touching, injecting, kissing, swallowing, bending, squeezing, living, breathing, suffering, dying, evolving. Running my fingers over four strings of gold-plated steel, closing my eyes, picturing a large stage, hundreds of people connected by passion flowing readily through veins, consumed by the major-minor switch, modal changes, dissonant chords, stylistic evolution. This is the only minute that I will be here, here, in this moment, breathing, wanting, being this. It has become all about the journey, the decisions I make, the people I choose to love, the evolutionary process that drives me closer to becoming somebody who will forever be remembered. I am terrified of dying, of being forgotten and my essence scattered over various landscapes but never thought about again. This is seemingly irrational- I am yet to be remembered for anything, but I am scared of not existing. I believe in constant evolution, a constant force that drives us to change, always striving for completion and wanting to be more, and I wonder if my past self was equally as frightened by the thought of never being this again, never breathing this way, walking this way, living this way. I watch the bright colours drip from cheekbones, down a slender neck, over bones that form a strikingly-defined sternum, bones that divide the colours into two streams, then four, then eight, ten, eleven, twelve, flowing down a chest, over a broken ribcage, bruised stomach, scarred hips, weak thighs. Incense burning, old tea bags scattered over broken wood, shattered glass in your hand ready to carve into broken skin, a pile of purple pills waiting to be swirled around in wet circles, torn wrappers that once provided protection, bleeding skin dripping onto thin fabric unable to hold life in, hair torn from drained bodies, a formation of broken bodies laid side by side, front to back, breathing life into those that surround them.
