Cinnamon Oil

by Ashley Opheim

I resist tweeting and keep the following thought to myself: In industrial meadows we are future gardens made of heart nectar.

The average human being thinks somewhere between 7,000-50,000 thoughts a day.

How many thoughts does the Dalai Lama have a day? How many thoughts does Miley Cyrus have a day? What does this tell us about thinking?
How does one classify a thought?

Do you think a thought, or does a thought think you?

I don’t want to hear what I’m thinking. I don’t want to think what I’m hearing.

I put cinnamon oil behind my ear.
It burns my skin, but I do it again and again.

By accident, I create a wound.

I put amber dust on my wrists in the bathroom.
Someone upstairs is jumping up and down a lot.
The government is on strike, or something unbelievable like that.

I dream that I climb a pyramid only to find a mall with a shitty food court at the top.

I order a coffee.

I dream about a girl who steals my lovers’ heart with nothing but her eyes,

which are like mine but not.

She is singing
‘There was a calming but it’s gone’ over and over again.

I am here with the fruit flies.
I am creating mansions made of orange rinds for the fruit flies.

I am writing to avoid feeling awkward.

Don’t ask me about my online behavior,
it is a sensitive issue.
It plays a part in my samsara, which I am trying to escape.

Beginnings are just as delicate as endings.

I will live through every moment because I have to, because it is necessary for my survival.

A girl walks by me on the street carrying a birdcage with nothing inside of it.

I imagine a 360-degree rainbow surrounding my body.

I walk by flowers without noting how vivid their colours are.
I walk through a field in the middle of the city.
I walk by flowers without noting how vivid their colours are,
where someone has knocked over two bee hives by some white flowers.

Endings are just as delicate as beginnings.

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