all my dreams are a summation of my mistakes

no notebook has ever felt secure enough for thoughts inside of my head, for my fears and insecurities—if I read every word my eyes glance upon, surely others do as well—no word processor or email server, I trust internet databases with my bank account password and the answers to my security questions but the danger in my mind is that once someone knows the inside of my mind it cannot be changed

sometimes I envy others for their mother’s lack of involvement in their lives, but I don’t know who I’d be if I hadn’t been raised on artistic anxiety, don’t understand how my sister didn’t skip from innocence to perfect awareness, hyper so, in fact—perhaps something caught her mid-leap and dragged her back into a normal way of thinking, the universe didn’t know what I’d done until it was too late, but it could prevent the next from making it across

I want to write down every thought I have, but I fear my hand might fall off, my ink might dry up, I fear the page may burst into flames under the extreme pressure from the weight of my words. the speed of my thoughts may create enough friction to combust. but perhaps only that pressure will turn the coal to diamonds, the irritation change the grain of sand to a pearl, and until then the gems will elude me and sand will cause a mild annoyance at most and the coal will kill the planet, an inefficient resource taking precedence

and all of this, under the cover of I want a job or I want to go back to school or I want an apartment or any other of the mundane inconsequential desires that aren’t going to matter in a millennium, a century, a decade, a year maybe. all of it, so inconsequential. ludicrous concerns that only distract from the philosophical, the ethical, the meaningful. but is any of it meaningful? in the end? won’t we all come to dust, and the universe with us?