I don’t want to do this. Those open wounds that had me bleeding out onto the floor every night of my youth are sealed and scarred. Thought about in the summer time when the sun makes them darken to a deep organ purple, the color of plums, or when a smell or name hearkens the heart and makes neurons reconnect to remember the last time something was remembered.
I don’t want to stamp around in those old footprints. I’m dying to smash anew and create. I won’t want to carefully place and revisit.
Soon, that will all happen.