And No Dreams To Frighten Me Anymore

I was in an Emergency Room and my hands were covered in paint. This was my Tuesday morning; I was with a girl from my art class who had accidentally cut into her finger with an exacto knife. An ex-Mormon stared at me from across the room. And I knew that in three hours I had to hand in my Art portfolio. The only comforting words that walked through my head were, “In one hundred years none of this will matter.”

Two hours later I taped compositions that, for a semester, had been on the wall of my room into a giant portfolio. My walls didn’t see their art compiled, they were elsewhere looking stained and lonely. And I sang or asked a Rufus Wainright song. “Why am I always on a plane or a fast train? Oh what a world my parents gave me… Always… Traveling.”