I think a lot about who sees these and why I write them. Would I keep writing if I knew no one would read them? I think so. I like to think that someday people will read them. I like to think I’ve been real. Maybe I have an audience. Does it matter what I think and what I do if I don’t reach anyone?
Thank you for reading. I know there’s a lot here. It’s weird to think you would want to read them. I wish I could write something better for you. You know I could.
Just realized that damp ash is like sand: I can draw in it. This ash, it could be from anything. Houses, trees, hopes, dreams. Does it matter when I have so much? Should I build little sandcastles? Little ashcastles? Scoop a handful and whisper, “Who were you?” Build a snowman? An ashman? I could sculpt a throne and subjects. See my domain. They don’t say much, just “Why are you here?” See my footprints being filled. I’d rather be somewhere else. Wade across the border. But this place must obey me and I might be here for a while. Too bad it doesn’t taste good. If it did, I’d eat it with chopsticks. I’d write a cookbook, “Zero Ways to Convince Yourself This is Fine”. It would be a bestseller. So quiet. Maybe I’ll record ukulele. But I don’t want to be here. I’m tired of ash. I’m of ash.
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