They say good fences make good neighbors, but if the fence is the dividing line between stories, between perspectives, between the space we could inhabit together but instead command separately apart and alone, how do they make for good relationships? I don’t want to so tightly hold onto my space, my rigid remembrances, squeezed beliefs that make for neat lonely cages. I want messy, yours and mine, I want our lives to bleed together and find truth somewhere in the glorious creation of purple from my blue notes and your red proclamations. I want harmonies, even dissonant if it means that this song called life will engulf me, use me, tangle me sweet vibrating into your disheveled embrace. I don’t need my truth, or yours. I don’t need to be good or right. I want the watercolor chaos of our lives, our eyes, our sight, our irregular frames colliding together.
