The frenetic energy
of doing something right,
something expected
like the drip drip of plaster seeking the comfort of a mold to conform to
so that it can live up to the expected and become
a cast,
a work of art,
something structured.
Instead it falls out into a mess on the floor,
sprayed by liquid tears to keep it supple, maliable
until one can decide what it is exactly one wants to be…
Is it not the nature of plaster to conform,
so why the question of conformity?
What is there to debate in the wee hours of the night when panic like an arctic wave beats up against the outer shell intending to force submission into some kind of form of structure that panic will create if the options presented by social are not taken up;
yet here I am,
at 3 am,
still questioning
what it is I want;
what to do,
who to be,
how to live,
the validity of a structure created out of fear, or copied design
in relation to one
formed by loving hands
over a period of time
molded slowly
into a shape
still a mystery.
Caia Rose 