I was named after no one.  My mother dreamed of the inky notepad that was her life and wished to turn the page, clean.  Blank.  A subtle start that wouldn’t stay silent long.  At age two she handed me a pen, asked that I begin.  A lesson in making a mess.  Not so much art.  Not so much literature.  Not so much creation as it was a continuation of a story published in pity.  A dusty book on a dusty bookshelf in the back of an abandoned thrift store.

I was named after a dream that will never be told, even at parties when everyone’s been drinking down their pink champagne for hours.  Not even in secret whispers in bed to a lover you know you’ll never see again.  Not even in poetry where it’s hidden in double negatives and rambling lines that aren’t even worth the analysis.

I have that same dream now, of turning the page.  But in my dream the ink has all bled through, mapped out same crooked, crossing lines I’ve made when I was drunk and pressing too hard.  I have another dream too, of driving too fast towards the ocean and tossing the notepad into the waves.  But I know it would only find its way back to me, heavier then with the seawater, and impossible to carry in my back pocket.

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