m.i.a.

I am here, and since, have been highly sentient of the sensitivity of others. And more specifically, how this sensitivity that is reflected in their actions and inactions (which is an action itself) burdens the mind of others and dulls the actions and reactions others have towards and of them. It becomes more necessary to write of these experienced events, rather than invent their invisibility. I must retell and reshape them, in order to breathe beauty into what looks and lives like a disaster. The other night in the midst of a scene, my interior speculation of it and persistence to concentrate and memorize its details—I became more aware of what I felt I was doing, or had to do. I was building up breaths, keeping them close, in order not to exhale. I felt like if I should, I may fall to the ground and breathe myself out. I am stronger and must deliberately try and hold myself secure. Otherwise, I would easily fall back within myself, imitate the sensitivity that others are inhibited and inhabited by and thus, be a torment to others and worse off, to myself. However, successive smiles feel faked (regardless of how seemingly convincing) when you are walking over cracked shells.

Many stories I frustratingly want to write and get outside of me. Time is the only thing I am lacking; finally and fortunately that and not imagination or stories. Miami has felt good and the moments have been what I have needed. From the return of old friends, estate sale extremes, Hot Chip, dancing on bars to Town&Country’s city articles, I have been inspirited. Days are spent spinning pass the sea. Nights spent dancing around songs that encourage the effects of ecstasy—making you feel how it feels to forget the self held within the limits of your body and move in ease. These things I dig.