i am having a harder time than usual adjusting to the time change. my morning lounging felt like afternoon hangouts but it was only 11AM. now it is after 7:30 and i feel like it's 4 o'clock. my body and brain are disconnected. hasn't it always been that way though, metaphorically?
i woke up from a long nap yesterday and felt like writing. i think i only scribbled a few lines in my sad journal but my bones ache to write. they are tender, bruised and ready to feel something lovely. so, i write. it's all i have some days. i spent the afternoon sitting in a coffee shop completely tuned out to the hubbub around me and focused on political implications of high and low art and cultural priorities. when i think about the remaining six months i have at my full-time job i feel the most grateful for getting into school. it is holding me together at a time when i feel like i might break apart into a million pieces if a good wind blew into me. it is a tenuous hold though, since the next step means the big, permanent step. i am in love with everything and nothing; i am standing here but walking away. straddling this fine line of life is hard at best and i don't even want to think about the worst. the thought of writing is comforting me. i stare at this beautiful leather journal my sister bought me for my birthday. it was purchased at columbia, though not made there, but it's a very powerful symbol for me. something special, the greatest thing ever, should be written in it. its pages cannot be used lightly. so i am afraid of it. i am afraid that my writing might ruin it. you need to play writer as well editor to create something of worth and i don't think i've accomplished the editor part yet. i can barely edit the things i do in life so putting it to paper is tricky.
anticipation. remember when? it's not the same as it used to be because we were young, small and naive, but it's still so special. i get why people have selective or no memory of their years as teenagers because of the silly choices made but i hold on so tightly to those memories. you can squeeze out the sweet, lovely bits and not be such a stuck-up son of a bitch. everything looks perfect from far away. it's true. shivers. just trying to feel. don't try so hard!
maybe i am picky. maybe i am worth something that you don't see. maybe i am just this person who is walking around trying to feel my way through the thickest fog. maybe i just am. the purest kind happy i have been in a long time occurred in new york and this past friday night. in new york, when the wind was just starting to viciously blow, i ran down christopher street and squealed with excitement because it was time for an adventure. it was adventure time in new york fucking city. friday night i was jumping, moving, laughing and rubbing (involuntarily) against everyone under black lights. it was loud, sweaty and awesome. my voice went hoarse as i screamed the lyrics to "last nite" to a boy with a white t-shirt. he still couldn't hear me.
i'm tired of being vulgar. it's funny sometimes but it's just a veil. remember when we wrote silly love songs and poems? you believed in the romance because there just had to be something better than this? you still should. the vulgarity ages you. but don't be a prude. you'll be wound so tight that no one will touch you. i don't want to be a confidant liar anymore. i know what i need.
i know it.
