HOH Magazine: Correspondences from a New Cocoon (November 2024)

back behind the barricade, the barracuda bites at my brain, the buyout of buoyancy to balance a book or two, before beginning to face a bitter embrace. beneath the binary, do I boast or bury in a busy blush. do I block a bruise, do I better myself from break or bend. beckons, the cocoon. can I covertly circumvent context, or do I merely cover conviviality with continual cortex concern. come come, cozy yourself and connect with my disconnected, discombobulated, disorganized dig-down doozy of a dugout.

What Kind of Butterfly (Final Correspondence From The Cocoon)

Here I am, on the precipice of my chrysalis. Pressing against the dried, transparent walls of my cocoon. Can you see my coloration? I don't worry about what shape or decoration I will take when I emerge but the shape of the world I'm emerging into. But then again, just as all acting is reacting, I don't actually give a fuck about what shape your petty, fetid world is in. It is not mine to control, so what matter should I give to my mind over its form? I guess the tables turned, the facade is down: I do truly, actually worry what shape I will become. How I will be pressed and molded as I molt and shed, poked and bled by this greedy machine of consumption. I'd hope it's "as an avenging angel doing the work of God." But how do I guide that hope – that intention – into practice? Such notions make wrestling matches in my mind, the spectacle of thought.

If I haven't stated it so clearly before, then here: This world was not made for me but I belong in it.

Under A Rock (Correspondence From The Cocoon #3)

Last known photo of me happy. 11/8/2016, 4:02pm

I want to be a care-free person again.

More Correspondence From The Cocoon

'Sup, it's ya boy Hidey-Hoh again. Since writing that last piece, my chest has been free for other stuff to get on it. So I'm writing a follow-up.

“Are you still in hiding?” (Correspondence From The Cocoon)

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