Dorian Gray,
but we hold the canvas in our hands,
every day,
our algorithms the portraits
of our sins and injuries.
I am in San Francisco, but the city is outside, not outside like I feel in every circle, but outside in itself, a living breathing expression of everyone who lives here, who struggles here, who fights here, the city is outside with open arms and I am outside with clenched fists, gripping the key with which I lock myself inside, I am outside inside my own head and I want to open the walls to soak up the sun but it is night now, so I wait, I can't sleep because my stepbrother is snoring in his bed and I haven't calmed down yet, I miss my cat and the solitude of my room, which I squander on the internet and Steam, I have not written in my journal in what feels like forever, I haven't meditated, I've just ruminated, this stream of self-consciousness is the closest I've come to rigorous self-analysis in a long time. I should try to sleep, good night, good night.
Postscript: I shuffled my tarot deck and drew The Hermit; on the nose, but I appreciate it all the same.
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