writing in the margins

why is writing in books sacrilegious?

I think I need to write in my books, in the margins. No, I NEED. Truth be told, I don’t know why I’ve been putting it off for so long. I’ve been concerned with keeping them safe for someone. Maybe the last pathetic need for community. Not pathetic. Necessary. Ernest. But who? Who’s waiting? Who would be so offended at my notes? Who invented this strange religion of books as furniture, instead of you know, books? Faith is a mad thing, a slippery ghost. I’ve been studying the Word and finally ready. I’m ready to blaspheme.

Right now, the book pulls at me. Telling me the only way I’ll know it and by that I mean myself is to plunge. Scribble. Make a mess.

We’ve been told all our lives that nothing is more important than cleaning up a mess. The mess in our rooms, Afghanistan, the earth. “Someone will come clean this up”

No one is coming.

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Why are we afraid to do the things that will reveal us to ourselves.

This is not a question.

And in turn, reveal who we can be for that community. Have I ingested the worm of individualism and capitalism so deeply that I am afraid?

My two future cats will be named Madeline and Louise. Because they’re characters in a show I love who…