I’m always a little bit restless nowadays. That’s a problem. Some days I spend hours pacing circles into the carpet, some days I knock rhythms into desks, some days I can’t think calmly unless I’m running full tilt, tears from cold air drying on my face.
I think I bargained away my stillness at some point but my mind is whirling, spinning, jumping from idea to idea, thought to thought to thought, whiplashing from memory to prophecy so fast I can’t tell what’s real. Can’t remember what I got in exchange.
People call me Blue. They call me Ink. I write with the speed of a plague and it’s fury but I don’t think that’s new. I can’t remember a time I didn’t fall asleep without words spinning into creation under my tongue. Can’t stay still enough to remember much at all, really.
There’s an old black cat on campus with one blind eye bit two others that work well enough. He likes fish, and chicken as long as it’s raw. He sniffs at my iron chain around my neck disdainfully every time I talk to him. I can’t find it’s clasp anymore. I don’t think there ever was one.
What does matter are all the poems tacked up on my dorm walls. What matters is the level of cream in the mug outside and the amount of blue pens I still have. What matters is salt on the windowsill and doorway threshold. What matters is that even through the endless momentum I experience, I can still remember my true name. What matters is that They can’t seem to touch my writing at all.