Sweet Nothings Thursday, September 18, 2025

My axons are coated in sand. I feel the subtle constant grinding the comes with every thought.

Regardless of the herculean task of thinking, I still scream harsh somethings at myself.

My mind’s tongue switches from obsidian to sediment in the way I am struck. Metamorphic crag.

I am slashed red and beaten blue and gray, an overcast sky comes forth.

In its shadow I refuse to take a lurch of no faith into them.

Maybe I should paint again. Maybe I shouldn’t.