SEVEN OF CUPS
Daydreaming, choices, fantasy, illusion, imagination.
Having many choices, overwhelm, indulging in wishful thinking, falling into dissipation (wantonness, disorganization, addictive patterns)
Insects are always en masse it seems; where there is one there are others, and there is always, always one, you just can’t see it yet. I peek from the bedsheets and watch as piles of drying flowers, their wet rot sour scent now shifted to a dusty one, attract flies. Excess leads to decay; what is consumable surpassed, the remains pile up and insects swarm. I bought the flowers myself. I got the bugs for free.
Excess leading to destruction sounds about right for me. I always bought my drugs in bulk – not from greed but from anxiety. How I hated having to ask for what I wanted, the reaching out, the talking to a stranger, the waiting, the hoping and the hunger. I once dropped $400 on cocaine, which meant I couldn’t pay rent. I paid to buy myself more time away from the next instance of having to talk to someone. I don’t even like cocaine that much.
I don’t use anymore, but I still anxiety-spend. The groceries I bought rot in the fridge. I buy more, load the fridge with food I imagine eating. I imagine being someone who cooks, someone who eats vegetables.
The clothes in my closet are vegetables too – some now buckshot with moth holes, some never fit. I decide I will be a pattern mixer, no, bright monochrome, no, all black. I will be someone who wears outfits, someone who goes to parties and clubs. I will be a maximalist, excessive, extra, multitudinous as glitter and just as sparkling.
My fridge, my closet, filled with anxiety. Anxiety is hope-adjacent, its glaring reflection – both look to the future with expectation, what if, what if.
I put on the same old tennis shoes and the same old jeans and I leave, the door shut but unlocked behind me. Never locked.