December and January blend together

It seems I do not have purpose if it is not to love. The Gods attempt to confide in me— they say to love can mean more than you believe. Change the woman’s sheets so her slumber is no longer subpar. There is a battle between focus and disappearance. Love is many things. She tells me she does not understand how to play this game. The moon writes letters to me— says she wants to absorb my melancholy in her craters. I wonder if my purpose is to guide the woman in this moment. The Gods have not guided her to the meal in the next room nor have they presented a matching pair of shoes. A mother and two boys sat no more than five feet from me on the bus. I could not hear what they were saying. My music was up as loud as it could go. They seemed happy. She took a picture of the boys. My fingertips were not my own as they caressed the skin of my palm. The woman with the sheets returns shortly after my empty space of matter. I ask the Gods if they had shown her the matching shoe. The moon tells me she has tried. We all have. My mind is made of static. Radio silence cannot have concrete purpose. There are three pairs of matching shoes on my floor. My sheets are newly washed. Without the moon and the Gods I am a knife in my skull. If the mother on the bus had not exited at my stop I fear I would have drowned in Lake Michigan. A fool has written prior– I may taste what is mine but not what is given. I am the opposite of myself. I am the young boy who holds back laughter on the corner of Diversey and Sheridan. I am the woman with mismatching shoes. I am the moon and the Gods. I am nothing.

— Olivia Dodge