The human eye is god's loneliest creation

how did I get here?

“Would you tell me, please, which way I ought to go from here?” she asked. “That depends a good deal on where you want to get to” replied the Cheshire cat. “I don't much care where” she said. 

“Then it doesn't much matter which way you go” he grinned back at her.

That door is closed now, letting the river take me, just looking far enough to survive. Turns out it led me to a dead end. I think working this silly market for the holiday, a quick fix to pay rent in the shock of pandemic fluctuations 

in economic waters, rocking the boat 

is a message. Watching the boss have a meltdown in this plastic house, in a small village of replicated structures in a park - as she falls apart under the weight of 40$ transactions, the crinkle of plastic as we unwrap items that say 'made in china' behind the counter quickly, as customers ask me if I made the jewelry because they want to interact with an artist, purchase something handmade

I inform them with a wicked grin that I'm just a craigslist hire

Some part of my identity I've been clinging to lives in the sound of that plastic crinkling, in the 40$ transactions of people buying jewelry that looks like what they are already wearing, haggling over gold plated stainless steel 

its time

for the wooden planks of this ship to remember in a past life that they had roots, to walk on water until sand meets the edge then cross over the threshold

a boundary is a portal is a line drawn in the sand that gets washed away with the tides, as the moon rolls along its samskara, through our dreams and bedtime stories and in our blood

Maybe the effects of the moon shift, as I move from the hormonal, emotional unpredictability of blood and water onto land like a hurricane of illusion and reflected light, embracing the archetype of transformation to become Daphne for a moment as she is chased by Apollo, god of the sun

her leaves became his crown, for the length of his godly career, a symbol for victory still used today, her freedom bound up in the act of taking root, that moment of flesh coalescing into tree limbs 

I was born to photosynthesize, to convert sunshine and toxicity into oxygen, to be embedded in the map instead of just passing through.

Its already happening, I can feel it.