I have little flashes of the future-as-I-will-make-it stored in my memory banks. They are a little bit like dreaming. You see things, but you don't. In between flashes of grey light. Smoke, wavering tendrils.
And so I see half of my thigh, over exposed reduced to light and little shadow, papered over with words I love. My wrists carrying comfort, familiar sounds.
My back tells the story I loved most when I was small.
I am a book, I am a page, I am everything I loved most and have been shaped by.
I have halfway crossed the border between the place I was born and the world I have lived in.
It might happen. I might decide that I love my virgin skin. I might fall into a vat of silver oxide in a freak accident and emerge a bruised blue and spend the rest of my days travelling with the circus*.
But it might happen.
*blatant borrowing from The Five People You Meet In Heaven, the imagery appeals to me today.