On Remembering Future Tense by Shana Wolstein Last night I finally understood the meat sack computer Buddha truth of disconnect that I've been floating in; like AthenaLynnMichael I'm starting to question my operating system but I don't know where I'd go in transition because that's always been my problem. I like change and travel and new perspectives but each step seems more precarious than the last. I came out as queer in theory but in practice no words are ever good enough and so I point toward my capital T truths rejecting organized iconography but embracing the symbolism that all the arrows point north instead of inward anyway. Don't say I'm multiple because I haven't earned that but when I held up Shana, Luna and Pepper fell out. That's what she said; Luna and Pepper, Alpha sub and desperate cup filler who would empty herself to feel you lick her insides dry. I lived inside a closet like the allegory of a cave and my eyes are still adjusting to all the colors, learning shades, and understanding that all outlines are lies. You see, everything comes back to a spectrum with me and I guess that's why discovering new sides, possible grounding lines for new systems I am fallen in warm scooped out palms of earth. Because life is the only form of prayer I worship and life within the burning ring of chronic fire, watching Twin Peaks I think it is a fire walk with me. I guess I think it's funny when I have a few days distance to think of someone who is upset at the silence my pain has cast because, it was great and all to take care of myself but I had hurt them. I imagine falling off a cliff and reaching out to hands slapping and scowling when I scratch them. I guess that's when I realized that it wasn't about it, again, it's not like you can go a day without realizing that. The access to responses immediately create a Dutch oven of paranoid gossip and manipulation. Selfish isn't always an insult; I have to remind myself this as often as it's a pot or a kettle and someone internal or external will always be arguing that neither is black so does that metaphor, you know, really work for anyone. Prose bros roll their eyes and narrow gazes, sculpting douchebeards that bring new understandings to the performance of toxic masculinity, think that I've lost my sense of humor. I guess I have lost the humor, not sure if it was a sense for it or just an eye to see glow in the dark paint that didn't get to sit long enough in the glow. My eyes can't quite focus on the positive unless I'm cutting space from the negative. The paint only luminesces in periphery so I never get to look it right on. There's an instability in the darkness that is sweetly empty of pretext and is just soft shirts and clammy hands, if we agree on a direction and a spectrum we only have time to fight. And you've fought this battle longer and are better at going slower and I'm still learning how to respond to that. Except again I'm laughing so I figure there must be something that we've both found by bumping against our blinds spots.