I often dream of you. Not really you, necessarily, but the search for you. In these dreams, I am always walking city block after city block, tree-lined streets and scorching sun, so close so many times but always, always a dream. I wake from these dreams searching. Searching for meaning. I worry over coincidences, over high occurrences of things that make me think distinctly of you. What does it mean? Does it mean anything? My subconscious is desperate to uncover something. Anything. I am always in the same place, I am always doing the same thing. -rjm 2007
loose threads
a smattering of things
recent posts
about
Jo McCrory is a writer and artist living in northern California.
-
-
Sometimes it feels like a curse. Sometimes it feels like death is the only preferable option. Sometimes it feels like there’s an elephant on my chest or sand in my lungs. Sometimes the pain is exquisite, delicate and sharp behind my lungs, resting on my stomach. Sometimes the person trapped inside screams, thrashes herself bloody against the walls, retches until her sides split open and everything rotten inside pours out onto my floors.
Tonight it is dark, deep blue, velvet under my fingers. Tonight it is bittersweet, staring out a dark window into a dark night. Tonight is cutting out my heart with a dull knife. Tonight is cold, stale, filled to the corners with emptiness. Tonight is mourning a friend who turned out to be a stranger. Tonight is evidence and conjecture, tonight is hopeless. Tonight is unending.
-rjm, 2012
loose threads 