nothing more

That’s the point! In reality I don’t make sense. I’m tired of trying to pretend I make sense. If this is crazy then maybe I am. I am more of this than I am what I seem to be. I think but I am without thoughts. I am a goldfish. My head is heavy but there is nothing there but a thin light blade trying to pierce my skin. It tries to make my ears bleed but I am successful at telling myself no. Always have been. Delayed gratification, I say. Great survival tactic my brain responds. Not survival. Not if there is no fear of extinction. More like, lack of will? Not even to do what is not? Or is this will in the flesh? The one that keeps us surviving. Not surviving. The will’s cousin? Friend? My conscience? My soul?

Random citizen of the Republic of Me. I get it. You’ve never been as digitally present. That’s why I couldn’t recognize you. Hello! As always I welcome you despite my not being too pleased to have to. But I do. Because of a skewed sense of responsibility, I do. I do.

Four tabs of unfinished letters written simultaneously. No guarantee if any will see the light of day. They say starting anything is the hardest part. But then why are there so many beginnings that lead to nowhere? If the middle is found, then the struggle is how to make it end. AHHHH! No editing. I will not edit out my crazy. At least not here. . Ten minutes later and some clarifications. Because you can only have your limbs and head out, that’s all. Not the feet because you cannot go walking around. Crazy. Not too crazy. A little but never enough to not go back. Like Aaron Burr. Yes. Because I wait for it. Because I am the one thing in life I can control.

No you can’t choose one. You are both in control and controlled. The universe exists with all this dichotomies, so can you! I am so tiny. I can’t even have space inside me with all this universe in me. Should have stopped myself during brain reboot. To put in my To Do List, quirky. Joan Cusack says quirky is good. Not weird. Hide the weird. Show the quirky. Quirky is good. Quirky is cute. Quirky is what you are not. Bare minimum and still a disappointment. Still, hilarious. Hilarious and fun. We don’t like when we are not who we are. When we cannot remember the many things which we want to forget. We want to forget but we also want to remember, because if not us then who?

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sense

Today, like others

Nothing makes sense, none at all

Carry on home dear

Gumamela

Underneath the towering mahogany, a small bush of gumamela dares exist. Its dark green leaves and striking red flowers is a welcome infusion of hue in an otherwise dull corner of the yard. A gust of wind passes and it dances along with it.

In this memory, the sun shines bright. Brown leaves from the mahogany fall slowly. Do you remember the white sand it’s planted on? And the patches of bermuda grass that didn’t seem to belong? Curious. It was a weird corner, but it was your favorite corner.

How perfect would it be if a swing was built. The kind you see on magazines and t.v. Maybe you could sit there until late in the afternoon. Wait for dusk ’til you can no longer stand the mosquitoes feasting on your legs. This wasn’t a place where you see the sun set but you know it has, because the light has changed how it touches the branches and the leaves. Like a romantic painting except it’s alive and moving.

Do you see it? Do you see the memory? Will you take me back there with you? Live a life of charity and hopefully die peacefully there, too.

 

Confession; A teenage summary

I am a complainer.

Ten. The age I encountered the idea that the secret to happiness is contentment. Every year after, at Christmas, when kids wished for toys I wished for happiness. Not contentment, but happiness. Like a shortcut, I wanted to reach the end without taking the journey towards it.

Eleven. Other kids wanted to be friends with me. Finally. But I’ve been so used to being alone, I don’t recognize their sincerity. I must distance myself because the only way to avoid getting hurt is by detachment.

Twelve. Is this love? Five, ten years later, I still don’t know. Every few years I revisit the memory because back then I couldn’t stay long enough in the moment to actually feel it.

Thirteen. Already I feel old. Like I never belonged in this small body but to a soul much older than many. Why else would I feel the pang of betrayal as if it’s an old memory?

Sixteen. Honor. Excellence. Freedom. Servitude. The abstract becomes tangible and the world grows bigger. What change can one make with two small hands?

Eighteen. What is fear? Is it the nightmares that keep me awake at night? Or the reality I can’t escape from no matter how long I sleep? No point in running. But maybe a little more.

Nineteen. Nothing good lasts. But was it really? Or is it only the memory that makes it pretty?

In search of purpose

I write.

For no reason.

Or perhaps there is.

I just don’t know what.

I’m not even good at writing.

But why should that stop me, no?

My hands merely relay words from the void.

Perhaps I can stop once the purpose presents itself.