Two more days of school and I have one more paper to write. My mind feels empty and drained. Where are the words going to come from? I pull out my studio journal and scan my chicken scratch writing for something, anything. I scan the gibberish; mis-proportioned stick figures poised on arrows, constant complaining about my eczema, bad puns, random lyrics, and thought fragments about identity development, signification, gazing and space. Quoting someone quoting Lacan quoting Freud. So much gibberish. I read and read and read and read what I scratched and suddenly I see a pattern. And suddenly the pattern takes a shape. The shape is me. It’s what my imagination looks like, it’s the shape of what my heart desires. The paper is there. The person we are is enough, is fecund.


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