I quit caring.

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Who’s the one who keeps control of time? I asked. And when the silent room echoed back, I realized it was me.

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I’m gonna let the tiger out. And that tiger is gonna behave.

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I’m not much of an active participator. It wears me out.

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There’s this thing Chinese people do, where they scrape a penny over your back and inside of the elbows, and it’s supposed to draw out toxins. And sure enough, tiny purple constellations appear under the skin, drawn to the surface. I remember my mom doing this for me once in Cabo where a single mango margarita laid me out, and it did make me feel better afterwards.

November is like that for my soul.

As soon as Scorpio appears, the darkness floods in and toxins are drawn to the surface. It’s why I love November. For the intensity. The storm. The death. The rebirth. And with the rain, purge and cleansing.

Spirit detox.

I accept the dark and light of Scorpio.

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When I leave, I forget things like they were a dream. I wonder if dying is like that. You forget life like it was a dream and in doing so, you find yourself awake in another.

Life is all about where you wake up.

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Goddam commit to not caring. I’m fucking serious. Fucking commit to it or caring is going to kill you, Julia. You need to turn it off.

I felt most peaceful in Seattle. I traded silence for the price of loneliness. And I finally felt like I could hear myself. Recognize myself.

Coming back to Fremont is like charging back into the center of the sun. Everything is painful. Everything is a draining challenge. Everything hurts. Whatever buffer I gained in that year in Seattle, it’s been burning off in the atmosphere and I’m getting more and more exposed. I came back a giant but little by little it chips away. My skin is raw in this air. My skin will burn up if exposed.

I’m not of this place. I found a way to sustain myself and my boundaries for a time but I can not breathe this air. And now my supply is running out and I am starting to suffocate. It is getting too close to being about survival. Fight or flight. My inner violence is a hot, hot anger. A tiger pacing, frantic to breathe. I resent this cage. I hate this cage. I resent those who I believe put me here. Hurt others or hurt myself to save others. This can not be the balance in which my life hangs. And yet every day, I make a choice.

At the base of every human, is a shadow that is no more than an animal. This is a world that demands compromise.

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I do have to admit not having to care anymore and being able to say, “That’s not my problem anymore” is attractive. Then I think about what kind of mess I would leave behind if any, and if I would be letting people down but then I wonder, is that my responsibility? Is the right decision to stay or to leave? Where would I go? Do souls without anchors drift until they disappear or do they just cease to exist?

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Some people want riches so they can have the private jet. The boat.

Me, I want the driver. The bodyguards.

There’s nothing I like better than being alone in the crowd.

And then when I tire of the crowd–the bat cave.

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Sometimes we get so caught up wanting things, we lose sight if those things are worth wanting.

We should only want things that are truly prizes. If it ain’t no prize, it’s not worth wanting.

He ain’t no prize.

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