I want to be real, as real is the ultimate goal in the game of obvious. There are purple whispers in my head. In my head. I tip-toe endlessly on the path toward forgotteness, but I am a failure in the efforts of the war against such and boredom. I dance in the savage way of my ancestors, but only in my imagination, for I know I’ll be corrected if someone actually saw. There is not enough time for the waking of the ghost of tomorrow. Beyond the reasonable laying of my lies and mocking the fiction, there is something true to wrap my hands around. I want to be real. My hair is done in a way that it makes instant jokes about gravity. It stand beyond normality like my soul, but unlike my soul, I battle to tame my hair. With every flick of the comb, I remember my marigold childhood. I remember the time when the comb was my enemy, and sleep was my crime. The pain will not wash away from the soda I poured on my head. It burned my eyes out, but luckily, I had a new pair. The internet will help. Yes, my friend named Internet. We go drinky drank around the corner, beyond the grazes of normality, like fireflies in space. We dance in the moonlight, partly because it is cliché, partly because I want to know the feeling. I make my own opinions about my life and my situations.

Whisper whisper. Is that the call of reality? I am not here today, so leave me a message on my wall of ecstasy.  It is painted the same color as my nails, cobalt blue and metallic grey like that kiss from Japan I kept hidden from everyone, except my other self. The streaks of conniption flutter by on wings made of the abyss. I can’t help but stare as they float by, for I can’t catch them. I can’t catch them, but I don’t lose hope for the future. I want to be free of the pinks in my life, for they are my night terrors in stereo. I want to rid myself of the oranges as well, but they are necessary, so I tolerate them. Have you come to make me real? I can see behind your eyes. You are intrigued. I want to wrap my fingers around your violet locks and make a rainbow for the future. I don’t like the way ginger kills all that is beautiful, it is not invited to the party hosted by the voices in my head. The world mourns around me constantly beyond the written understanding of how things should be. Yet I laugh. I laugh. I laugh because I am empty inside. Where is my symphony of light and imagination? I imitate these feelings with song. I pass these feeling like a disease through dance. Whisper whisper. Shimmy twirl. I have a secret too.