Rough draft

This home gets messy and hard to live in, without the windows open. And the world is never to blame. Not to me, it isn’t. Unlike most, the world is my own home, the stars are family and the odd satelitte a mighty mother. Sometimes, we do get into shacky and flaky familly affairs, but the world is not to blame. Its splendorous vitality only gets polluted by my own fury and loneliness, after every cult reunion for the reformulation of faith in our midst.

A home so bountiful fulfills my every need, but I still need to cook. My fire, my pots and pans, my lab for gentle, healing potions, is a little dirty. I didn’t have the opportunity to make it spick-and-span, before being called to reunite with the fam. My self-loathe complex slaps me in the face for soiling such a part of me, as my beaming lab is.

I feel snack-ish and the fire is still burning high.  A sudden nostalgy, with no appointment whatsoever, creeps in, greeting my lonely cloud, setling in the boiling cauldron while, in my depraved peace, a mixture of anger and reason, I sing to my unforgivingly monstrous shadow, trembling but loyal. My loving branches strech really hard, to the sound of heartfelt cries, belt out to no critter.

With all my art, I stirr right-to-left the most tender beets, drowning in the richest sauce made from scratch, glowing outrageously red and thick, made of love. This soup serves me, feeds me.

My art is creating. I create love with love to satiate myself with love.

A cicle, like Nature. Mother, Son and Daughter.