Oh, and I knew the perfect artist so many years ago. She’s passed on, sadly, but was a truly magical woman. With an extra vertabra, she stood magnificently tall, with long black and blue braids to her knees. She wore baggy rave pants, combat boots, and a leather bustier every day. Every inch of her skin was inked, mostly with her own designs — inspired by the chemical make up of a variety of stones, especially her favorite: flourite. Swirls and galaxies of color, and then the shock of a dragon or intricate beading around her waist or thigh. Finally, transdermal spikes poked out of her forehead, accentuating an already radiant aura.

She would have gotten it immediately, why you want that design.

Ah, I doubt many of those “fans” are adoring, or even fans, really. But you know? If anyone did decide to pray to me for world peace, I would. I would grant it in a heartbeat. I can’t imagine any deity worth their salt who wouldn’t. And not in that genie trickster way, where “world peace” means “last human on earth” or “deafness”. Just…literal peace. The cessation of suffering.

And, finally yes — we write for ourselves, and then want to be validated. What an odd thing to do, no? Walk through the day, thoughts burning to get to our fingertips, and finally, that sweet release when we send them out into the world — but not to find relief — no. Instead, we wait, hoping for some indication that someone else “got i”t — message received! — enough to reward us with some earthly reflection of acceptance.

We are a strange species.