I split myself most nights.

This splitting, it’s like parts of me warp and bubble, and all at once I am in the kitchen cooking up my wildness, while sitting in my thinking chair with a worrisome look, while dancing on my porch to a starry tune of night, while writing in despair and hope and comical instances only I remember to laugh at.

All these fractals, the possibilities of me splitting from my body, at any given moment, sometimes hundreds of them, sometimes thousands, all vying for my attention, rising and setting like the floating sun of me.

And I could be any of them.

I can make any and all of them real, or some and none of them fake. Proliferated thoughts with rocket ship fumes. Or bullying thoughts with mountain like weight.

Buzzing, these pieces of me.

Pouty, these pieces of me.

 And that Garth Brook’s album called In Pieces now makes more sense as these plentiful clamors hum me into trillion-depth thought.

Pluck them.

I do, I really do.

Pluck the meaningful ones I want to hold on to like a giant hug that will never end, or a night spent near the ocean with the waves always coming, always going, both directions at once under the yellow, mourning moon.

And when all of me comes together, it’s a clashing, a bolt of love, of indecision, of flashing concurrence clumsily sinking over me and into me in a buttery smooth, petrifying series of events that leaves me breathless, sucked to the core, puckered from head to toe with limbs wanting to melt into a blanket and hide from the day, undulating, always undulating.

These pieces.

I love them.

 I hate them.

 I play with them and pick them apart until I am back to a single form, me again, Jordan again, with layered wanderings melded to my contemplative skin.


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