An archetypist

I am homeless.

Not in that “heehee, I’m just waiting to move into my new place” way either. It’s more the “my family relationships have finally disentegrated to the point where they no longer exist and I have nowhere left to go” kind of way.

The street kid returns to the street.

When my paycheck comes Friday, I will be purchasing a military style wireframe backpack from the army surplus store and loading it with basic supplies and maybe some small mementos. The rest I will leave behind.

I will literally be carrying my entire life on my back, but all I know is I have to get to Burning Man.
(Tell me again how there’s magic there.)

I’m betting everything on this one roll of the dice and it makes me remember how I almost married this man, once, this sly trickster god. He used to two-step around my apartment, half-dressed, casino chips spilling from his pockets. Fortune favors the bold, so he never lost a gamble and I am remembering now how he used to press the red and white chips to my forehead and whisper “Baby girl, someday you will fly.”

And, god, am I praying that his luck will hold.