I am Jody's beleaguered mind. Worried about refilling. The mind is empty. A drafty window with a curtain frayed and swaying in the subtle flow of air. I am net of dried thread, bare and tired. I am desert with sand dunes leaning over. Scorpions crawling over. Under. Around.
I am stagnant water of the pond. Green algae grows around the perimeter. I am tired and I am full of fuels not yet burned, but inflammable to the current match's light.
I want no more paint under my fingernails. I am bored of it all. I am tired and weary of the same old same old same old. I do not know how artists do it, year after year. Same old thing. Round and round goes the wheel. There are plenty of properties to discover, indeed. But there is nothing very new under the sun.
I am Jody's immutable and corrupted sense of purpose. I am Jody's mind as smooth and dark as bottle glass. Waiting and watching for a new form to appear on the horizon. Waiting for the next challenge, the next big thing to try. To make. To do. To defeat.
I am Jody's itchy feet, ready for a race. I am Jody's tired blue eyes. Afraid of sleep deprivation. I am Jody's sense of self. Wondering if life is supposed to feel this way: so static and yet so unanchored. I am Jody's sense of possibility. Sleeping under a blanket.