I’m very happy right now. This is half the reason I was gone. I was at a mental hospital because I wrote something in my notebook, my teacher found it, told my mom, and I ended up at a place called Agave Ridge. There’s another reason too, but it’s not appropriate to share here.
(this is what i wrote that ended me up in a hospital) The body is a useful notebook. It remembers what the mind tries to misplace. Sometimes I press my pen hard into my skin just to watch the color change — proof that something answers when called. Pain is honest like that. It doesn’t pretend to be guidance or love or destiny. It arrives when summoned and leaves when dismissed. Clean. Predictable. Unlike the silence above me. They say we are fashioned carefully, intentionally. If that’s true, then I wonder why the design bruises so easily. Why it frays at the edges when handled too roughly. I test the seams sometimes. Not to destroy — I’m not careless — but to understand the limits of the craftsmanship. If something claims ownership of this flesh, then it should expect inspections. I trace faint lines where the skin has healed before, quiet reminders that I can redraw the borders whenever I choose. It’s comforting, knowing there’s at least one thing in this arrangement that answers to me. I don’t do it for spectacle. I do it to interrupt the watching. To create a sensation louder than the imagined gaze. For a moment, the vastness goes silent, and there is only nerve and breath and the steady fact of being here. If I am being measured, then I will adjust the numbers myself. If I am being shaped, then I will leave fingerprints in the clay. The notebook is already full of art it's time for ONE LAST DRAWING.
