In my dream last night, you told me that I wasn’t what you needed. Wasn’t an artist. And in my anger and anguish I wandered into my office at work, and began constructing chairs out of every material imaginable. I constructed therapy chairs. I made chairs out of bright pink jute. I made chairs out of creaking rattan, out of cold steel, out of pain and fear and joy. I made a work of art out of my therapy chair, my psychotherapeutic throne, the place from which I observe the unraveling of broken souls who have borne too much of the world, who bare themselves down to the marrow of their darkness and make offerings of it to me in my quiet confidential kingdom. I made chairs to honor my art, the art of peeling humans apart. The art of watching them knit themselves back together. The art of bearing witness to their truth. And then I set my chairs on fire. And as I watched your shuddering visage through the flames, I told you there was nothing more creative than reaching through the walls of our flesh and finding each other for even a glimpse of a moment, to find each other amongst the chaos and the complacency that come with simply existing.
I woke up to the darkness, the emptiness, the barrenness. And to the sharp sting of my oblivious cat burying his frustrated claws into my Achilles tendon.