"Shadow Work Journal"
My inner child smokes cigarettes in my inner gas station, not giving a flying fuck if she blows that bitch and everything around it up. Sometimes she wears a fireproof suit, most of the time she doesn’t. As a young arsonist, she does this because she thinks relying on fossil fuels for almost all of our energy is going to be the cause of our demise anyway; might as well get ahead of it. Money is fake and she’s robbed of her innocence everyday. As a consequence she is, of course, a skilled kleptomaniac—no one ever suspects her. Give her a pack of American Spirit blues and unmarked bills to keep her at bay.
She is the remorseless empress of my psyche. She did LSD for the first time in the school cafeteria at 15. She once snorted five grams of cocaine in one sitting and still went to sleep that very night. She has a tattoo over a motorcycle burn that says “dominator”. She now rides the subway with a Chanel bag, a switchblade, and dark Gucci sunglasses hiding half her face. Her priorities are fucked up. She’s older than what she looks like; she’s frozen in time, frozen at heart.
She is my muse. She is a strategist and statistician. Her favorite historical figure is Richard Nixon and sometimes Siddhartha Gautama. Her heroes are always Virginia Woolf, Amy Winehouse, Lord Byron. I must satisfy her. She is an emancipated minor who accepts no apologies. She’s daddy’s favorite, mommy’s nightmare. She needs no healing. Duh.
