What am I now and what was I then? Oh, the journey, my love, let it all begin again.
Looking back is hard, so hard, it is tough to stay here. You know what I am talking about, my dear.
But never give up. I will never give up. At one time, I was trying, just trying, to fill this cup.
Now it seems, I wish to pour it all down. But there is no way back. No way I know how to return, though I yearn. And yearn I must, and earn I must, for my keep.
What is the most proprietal way to save my keep?
How can I act, like someone is near, without having that person, have to be here?
If you were here, you would not like my condition. I have tried to fight and submit myself away from this derision.
There is no way out, no escape. I do not do hard drugs. Just coffee and cigarettes are what I take.
But can you imagine? What if something got me back there? When I could be alone in a cabin, by the fire, in a snowstorm, and say, yes, I am good here. Just give me a warm cup of hot chocolate, maybe a board game, or a good book and of course, good company.
Or how about this? Being stuck in the desert, too tired for walking. All alone, going up and down mountains of sand, and collapsing, only to find a camel by a lake, and it is not a mirage. And the camel has packs of water, and licorice for some reason, just what I want and needed. And we walk all night and day, and let my own legs rest. And my mind is complete.
My mind, my mind. Where has it gone? Like the ticking of a time clock, it is too sadly all the same now. 3:00 o clock turns into 4:00. And I could care less. 4:00 turns into 5:00 and I could care a bit, only because I question, I question, what am I doing with my time.
I have so much purpose, with no one to share with. I somehow know my nothing adds up. But my nothing adds up more with company. But what business do I even have when I have no business? I am a hundred years older than every creature I have ever seen. Only way I can feel anything is through drastic measures.
To be honest, I died a long time ago in cruel mistakes. Too young and too impressionable to know any better. But can you imagine if I did? If I knew better? But, I can’t. And the world can’t. And it is all falling apart. And no one is worth a damn. And I wish we were, and I wish I was too.
We could have meetings about life, about business, about pleasures. About things that are actually treasures. Not these stupid techno whores. Technology bores. Let me tune you out, so I can tune into someone who made something to capture my attention. No. I want story telling. I want cult classics. I want us to be in a room until something happens. Until we get so bored, we wish to leave. Until we stay so long, we wonder how we got so brilliant to stay together. And you rich friends, with your rich money, and your rich ways, and your distilled disrespect for everyone but yourself because you can afford that, and because that’s all you can afford. You can join me in all of my hardship, from never having anything. From never having anyone. And you can take and take, like everyone else does. And I will give and give, because it is all that I have ever had. Rich in struggles and stories. Poor people things. Sarcastic kindness, and kind sarcasm. Willing to give someone the shirt off my back, because I look better without one on, because all of my hardwork has been paid into keeping this body running in the best shape it can, so that I can afford to work at a job that does not pay enough, but still remain in high spirits, because endorphins are running through my body from pumping iron, from running, from getting enough rest, and from finally having money for food again. But I do not want to eat it. Because fasting is thrilling. And I do not need much because I have never had anything. And I can taste what good and bad food does to my body, my psyche.
But this. Writing. My sweet refuge. My wheat refuge. The only gift that has ever been so giving. Yet also, so taking. I have written my ways into stories that have caused dead ends. I have written stories that lead nowhere, then to everything, then to highs and lows that I am pretty darn sure only a chaptered artist knows how to write. Have you ever written an entire story, not knowing where it is going, but putting one chapter down at a time, only to find that somehow it all makes sense if you are paying attention to where the story is going? Then to have it conclude so perfectly that you are left in awe at what you just put yourself through? And you wrote so passionately, so honestly, with as much sincerity as you can muster and it is all looking back at you, ready to be read whenever you have the chance to give your full attention again toward reading? It is very hard work. But it has been the most rewarding work. I wish I could find something more to write about now. And not just on keyboard in a word document, that’s not enough. You need pen and paper, a storyline, the galaxy, and to just dedicate ten-fifteen days until the story is done. Until you have squeezed that story into the conscious galaxy, before the story passes you by and you are not sure where you left off. No! I am trying to teach you something here, young writers. If you are a writer. You must write! You must write your songs. You must write your poetry. You must write about who you are in odd characters, and familiarable characters. You must have settings. Do you not see what writing is? It is your own history. It is your own mystery. And you must write it. Or, you could be silent, unknown, never to speak a word to anyone, but I cannot. I like documentation, and you obviously do too. But I can feel the difference in every picture taken, in every thing I do, I feel the difference. Until I am numb. And when I am numb, I wish I weren’t. But I am.