TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER
an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
& other curiosities :: elsewhere :: profile
Post-term, after the mad flurry of deadlines, applications, and requests for this or that, I am now aimless. Outside of an institution, I am bereft of the skin that would otherwise contain all this flesh and blood congealed in the shape of a girl.
Wandering, I can feel myself leaking. The perpetually inclement weather pierces my skin, dissolving the softest bits first. Porous, I absorb the color of the sky, that sticky grey, it gets into everything, rubs off on my clothes.
Oh, lady, what to do with yourself? Commit to a structured week: research in the mornings, writing in the afternoons, evening walks along the canals and byways of Galway.