Time passes and I don't even know. I sometimes have flashes of the future where I'm a beggar diying of hunger, I sometimes think that's true, and I know that can be true. What I'm not sure is if I fear it, nor if I want it at some kind of subconscious level, maybe I am really drivin my path to a life that ends with me diying pathetically, my bones driying under the sun. And it's an idea that is hard to get off of my brain. I don't want that, I want meaning, surely that is the one thing I want.
I sometimes think I am already a beggar whom life hasn't bitten yet. That itself can have a meaning.
Time is always at a deficit. I can't seem to create enough schedules to capture the time that slips through my fingers. I would love to say that I am caught up in some great task or earth shattering thought. This is not the case. I usually go into tangents of thoughts, of ideas, and of other lists I should create. I go off into what I call detours to action to finish my list or goals; and when I realize time has slipped again I am stumped. I thought I was only missing minutes at most not hours. How do I get a hold of something as slippery as time? I can't reacquire it, bargain for more, or even pretend I didn't waste it. It is the most beautiful friend to make but the most unforgiving if I don't give it the value and respect it deserves. Again I have lost time 4:20 to be exact.
I take it as a badge of honor that I am a complete disappointment to you. I find that it has given me such a sense of complete freedom to know that I have not fit into your plans for me and my life. There is a liberation that comes with being your own person and marching to your own drum. I don't have to worry about your opinion or confine myself to what you view as socially acceptable. I know that my life choices are not so outrageous or sinister and in reality they are quite vanilla for most. I am not a mass murderer or a criminal. I find the rules you live by to be so confining and limited. I would rather be the disappointment than to have become a shadow of who I could have been just to please someone else. After all we are all given just one life and I plan to live it. So as you sit there on the phone or at your kitchen table ready to slice into the juicy gossip that is my life and life choices know that I am laughing. I honestly had no idea I was so fascinating!
Stop calling yourself a writer, when all you write is love poems. Write about life, adventure, anger. Write about anything other than the hole you feel thinking about finding love in him. Explore your opportunities and make your words run deep. Anyone can write how they feel when they're in love, but it takes a real writer to actually write the chapters of the rest of their life. Don't sell yourself short by only writing about boys. Writers are born, they're not created in moments of bliss. Come on. Stop saying you're a writer when it's clear that you only want to fill the pages of your notebook to feel important. You were never destined to write; you stole that dream from me when you saw that I was good at it.
That tumbling jumbling fuzzy buzz in the head
Is just a noise.
It’s the voices of others
Don’t pay it any mind
(it never gets better).
What can you see?
What can you hear?
Go through each sense
And then start to breathe.
That quivering quaking dissatisfied silence
Go into it.