It's hot. The Alabamian heat. I spend my days in a dress that doesn't fit properly. It's nothing but cotton, the top half too low exposing too much, the bottom half of the dress poofing out from the ribs, not the waist. Hips from the ribcage. White shoulders, messy hair. An odd collection of self. Headphones. The cord is long. I wrap myself in it and unravel myself again. Floating. Bending. Stretching. Reaching. Finding. I withdraw a little from this world and enter back into my own. Inhaling my skin, absorbing my reach.
The music washes over me. The only connection to anything out of this orb. Beautiful. Something amazing. My friend Mary's voice. Like an Angel. Singing to her mother. Singing to herself. Singing to the boundaries of her own orb. Will we bump in the night? But we have. We have transferred through each others orb once while not looking. The echo of her voice in my ears as I twirl, perhaps her feet now dancing in wet paint. Travelling through space. Orbitting. Getting closer to Jupiter. Smiling in the safety of it. Just travelling through time on our own. The destination made similiar by the love of it.
Sometimes I don't want to come down.
Such mundane things, such as sleeping.
Such as life.
Sleep ought to be more rewarding if you dream while you're awake.
I don't want to go to bed tonight.
It's too beautiful in this womb.
I'm going to stay inside my painting until dawn.