Turn me to art.....

Even papers age and get wrinkles too. This week my 2025 journal arrived (a month late! Apparently even time can get delayed in customs). I'm already emotional about all that I will fill her with. All the feelings that made a home in my chest, all the secrets that hibernated beneath my tongue, all the memories that outlived their own ending, all the people who taught me to fly and watched me fall. I suspect on judgment day, God will pull out his ledger and I'll pull out mine, and he'll discover this poor mortal kept better records than heaven's bureaucracy.

I'm not just keeping records to challenge God's math. This is bigger than divine accounting. This is my life project (literally).

At age 90, or when my fingers forget how to grip a pen, I'll gather every journal - decades of Tuesdays, all my wrong turns, every prayer I invented and then ate, every sunset I pickled but never got to eat, all the names I french kissed on these pages - and mail them to a stranger. Someone will inherit my entire existence. Not my children, not my lovers, not even my ghosts. A stranger.

I sincerely hope they'll transform me into art (since I failed to create art myself, perhaps I can be the raw material instead). Or maybe they'll let my words rot in their basement, let mold rewrite my autobiography. Perfect. What that stranger decides to do with my life is beyond my control. And this is why I love this project so much. It's a perfect demonstration of the savage beauty of existence... It's uncertainty and randomness: we're all just walking equations waiting to be solved by random variables. It's trust and vulnerability: we crave connection so much that we always choose to open our ribcages wide, offering our softest parts to the sharpest teeth of probability.