No6: RICHARD HAWLEY

PHOTO BY LUCIA AUERBACH

LUCIA AUERBACH

I read Whitman's Leaves of Grass in a forest to feel closer to the words on the page instead of just seeing them float by. 

That is what my Friday nights now consist of. 

My friends watch me from hundreds, thousands of miles away.

I know they're laughing at me.  

And I know I certainly would too.

I accepted your flowers you stole from the graveyard because I thought it was a grander gesture than from the store.

Lovers from years past now haunt me.

And now you are just a ghost. 

I know they love me.

And I know I certainly do too. 

I fall into the hole I dug myself in while running away from my realities.

It’s easier to find yourself in stories than in a high school hallway,

(I'm happy my hallways have turned into computer screens).

Even if my realities have turned into screens as well. 

I read Whitman in the woods to pretend that I am a character in a story that is not real,

Just like how I drive aimlessly with a red scarf around my head so I can be like 1991 Thelma and Louise.

There are no cameras following me

I still smile at them.

does my creativity make me crazy? or just a child afraid of growing up?