I dislike the feeling of socks beneath the soles of my feet. If I could have it my way, I’d be barefoot all of the time so the earth could be directly beneath me and her energy would feed me. This way I will have a constant reminder that I am alive.
I enjoy taking these “Thought Vacations” where I walk inside of a thought bubble and get lost in it’s ideas and I meet people there and all of this happens inside of my head and I travel so far away sometimes until someone says something and I get brought back. Sometimes, though, I stay too long and I forget to come back. And when I do, it’s sudden – like being jolted from a roller coaster seat in the middle of it’s zenith only to have the bar prompt you back in – and I realize that I’ve missed out on an entire conversation with someone. And then I feel so incredibly and completely rude. I am a nice girl. I hate to feel like I am being rude. The feeling is exhausting because I’m so terribly sorry.
I make my own coffee in the mornings before heading out and it comes out just perfect because I’ve practiced that ratio over a thousand times. When it doesn’t, I have to (forced to!) buy my coffee at the store and this becomes a gamble and I’m no gambler so I don’t like it when the day starts off in this way. It makes me feel uneasy. No surprises, please, I like none.
I worry about the things I can’t control, the things I can control, the things that have already happened, things that have not yet happened, things that would have happened differently and things that never happened but think about how my life would be different if they did. Sometimes I am trapped inside of my own brain, running like a freight train with no brakes. Yes, I think that sums it up quite nicely and precisely.
I might complain but the truth is that I could not fathom existing in any other fashion. I live with undeniable passion. There is music in my head and it takes me away sometimes and there is poetry in my mind that turns my lifetime into rhymes in winter, fall and summertime and when I sing, it feels like spring — inside of my own thinking. All without me even blinking. I am a shrink too, by the way, but I am never shrinking.
Sometimes, after I read a good book I let out a loud sigh like I just finished having good sex or something and I pull the book into my chest and wrap myself around it (around me) and I give it a snug hug. I want the words inside to know that I am going to miss them so much and they will be like marbles rolling inside of my head and when I look at the world now it will never be the same again because this book has added to my life’s vocabulary and inserted itself into me as if I were a living, walking breathing bookcase. The Book becomes another intellectual notch on my proverbial belt.
And when I finish a piece of original writing I always find it to be just awful. I mean terribly awful and awfully terrible, I mean. I think to myself “is this really the best I’ve got” and fight the urge to delete entire drafts and start all over but the future Me requires benchmarks with which to measure and so, reluctantly, I keep them (for her). And the lucky ones get placed on a world stage for hoi polloi to see. And when the masses like it I feel pleased. The populace can really feed my ego in that way. And when they don’t it’s because they don’t get it and I say forget it and to hell with it and fuck this shit. But this writing, these thought bubbles that float like clouds around my various body parts (sometimes I find a poem by my feet), this writing feeds my soul and so whoever is watching can see me eat (sometimes I feast and sometimes I famine) but I won’t ever retreat. My sweet. You see, you were my dessert right there (that poem was by my lips).
You may not relate to me and that’s OK as long as you save your reservations about it or at least don’t let me hear your judgement because when I am told how I should be, or what choices I should make to construct a happiness that is fake or how to properly live a life according to your Standard Operating Procedural Manual it makes me exhale in frustration that you cannot relate and I could think of a few four lettered words I’d like to belt out in your direction (you see those specious one-way streets work in both directions, in fact, it’s an intersection of reflection). You create a nausea in my belly and a pounding in my head and it rifles up my insides and I vomit, figuratively speaking. You will never relate to me and so I ask that you please stop trying. Just accept the difference and learn from it the same way I’ve learned from you (about what not to do) and use these experiences as clues. Like Blue.
This is now my terminal. I bid you adieu.