April 25 2024

Adulthood asks you to politely to please let go of your childish hand, and turn, and embrace ‘cold reality’.

O! but this is as obtuse as a cat with a hat coming back, as blithe as a Wild Things rumpus. O, my disgust at the celebration of a grotesque tale of a tree giving itself away — piece by piece, as if this is our destiny, or circle of life.

In truth, it is children, not adults, who know the harshest truths: that nothing is sacred, nothing is special, and nothing stays. What we make is wonderful because it is ours to love, for right now.

Grownups don’t razzle me half as much as the fear of forgetting who I am. So this evening, I’m drawing my sketches with crayon, and cutting the legs of this table loopy so comically thin. Then, I’ll laugh, I’ll sing my dogs songs and drink my juice.

I let go of being cool long ago. (I mean in truth, I was never that cool anyways. All swagger, no style.) A more honest man would just admit he likes making messes just because he likes the dirt. No explanation necessary.