See Life.

Vampyroteuthis infernalis.


I cloak myself in spirit
Hand over hand, I string my beaming soul from my heart, out through my mouth.
I dust it off, and wring it out, release it to the wind, watching it balloon over my head and float down to my feet.
I pull it over my tingling toes and my arms easily reach into the sleeves.
I zip my ghostly jumper over my form, so only my eyes are seen.
Lastly, I raise my hooded shield, nothing like my former homogeneous self.
Pupils expand with glowing anticipation.
Far off ideations weave the essence of my shroud.
I pull the silk gloves of grace snugly over my hands, stretching out my fingers, and snapping the fabric at my wrist to ensure their tailored fit.
My instrument I lift with confidence, and bold strokes of ink flood the manuscript.
Composure escapes as I compose.
My veil hums as its patches are revealed incongruently.
I have turned the page inside out:
The unscripted portrait is the story of my life.



To me, writing is alive.  I treat reading like surgery.  I regularly operate on a number of texts.  I cut away at tissue and muscle and bone until I can hold the beating heart of a book in my hands.  I wrote this thinking about that.  Thinking to myself; if I could turn writing inside out, what would it look like?