All of the creative work is...
meaningless unless it is made with you in mind.

I’ve seen you everywhere, in all of the small spaces
and large spaces alike.

A hologram
Everything located inside of you, loud and all at once

A dreamscape, a glowing reality
A breathtaking and gorgeous, dusty sunset
Golden shafts of sparkling light
Iridescent beetles floating in a pool of silver

I think I am in a dream.

Ripe flower, succulent
Sweet nectar of emotion flows, spills out into unseen depths

Glowing comet, irradiant
An eruption of brilliant, explosive stardust

I’d been forcing myself to assimilate in a place where I was fundamentally never going to fully belong—the cessation of assimilation came with a breath of freedom.

Each meaningful molecule.

And then my thoughts get too overwhelming and I have to stop—distract myself, even. I turn to play music, a song to cast a rope down into my long and lonely well of thought.

Weak against the scorching heat today.

“I started to write again,” I offer to the silence. “It feels… good.
Like I’m getting back to something I’d misplaced or … left behind somewhere in childhood.”

“Good.”

"One can always draw fresh material from one’s surroundings.
A few things about summers:
The hot air that greets you when you step outside at night. That the atmosphere licks you."

“What else?”

“Never mind. I guess that’s the only thing.”

“I was surprised when I saw my name on a piece of paper the other day. This person with this name is me? What does that mean, really?”

I give a small laugh.

He stays quiet, examining the small white petals of a Sweet Cecily growing next to the porch. I watch his fingers peel apart the flower, drop them to the ground. I long for a cool drink.

“Terrestrial efflorescence, what does that phrase mean to you?” he suddenly asks.

Brow furrowed, I attempt a response. “Like, the supreme state any of us earthly beings could achieve?”

His mouth breaks into a grin. “Yeah exactly,” he says, nodding.

Playground.
Just the two of us.

Hyperaware of the nuances.

Guiding subtle changes in your mood with my selection of music.
I take note of the microexpressions you make involuntarily.

“Why did you want to see me today?” I grab the cold metal pole and drag my weight on it, spin around.

“I was hoping you might have some answers for me.”

Sweden.
Approaching dusk.
Thick fog.
Dark trees.
A small house in a clearing surrounded by woods.
Two figures huddled close on porch steps.
Hot drinks.

He pulls the heavy, wool sweater over his head. A cloud of vapor breath escapes his mouth.

“I like spending time here, away from the city,” he says. “All the nighttime noises from the forest; they’re magnified.”

I shift in my seat to get warmer. Bits of frozen gravel crunch under my boots.

“You only have the essentials here, you know? Sparse living.”

“I like it,” I offer in response. “Everything is placed strategically, everything cared for and put in its proper place.”

“I only have one of everything. I had to go buy extra cups and plates and stuff when you told me you were visiting.”

Silence. A deeper silence here, surrounded by the listening trees.

“Do you ever get lonely?”

“All the time,” he said, turning his head and looking into my eyes.

I returned a questioning gaze, probing, mentally asking him to clarify, but he shifted his gaze back to the woods.

“Discussing the beauty of transience with others makes that aching loneliness feel better. All that longing inside of us. Just for that brief moment, it’s like the other person can echo your own longing, fill up that empty cavern in you.”