What am I now and what was I then? the journey,let it begin again.
Looking back it is tough to stay here.
I will never give up. At one time, I was trying to fill this cup.
there is way back. No way I know to return; though I yearn. And yearn I must, and earn I must, my keep.
What is the most proprietal way to save my keep?
There is no way out, no escape. I do not do hard drugs. Coffee are what I take.
Can you imagine? What if something got me 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.
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 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.
Yet my nothing adds up more with company. What business do I have when I have no business? 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 imagine if I did? If I knew better? But, I can’t. And the world can’t. And it is all falling apart.
We could have meetings about life, about business. About things that are actually treasures. Not these 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 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 have my hardship Rich in struggles and stories. Poor people things. Sarcastic kindness, and kind sarcasm. Willing to give someone the shirt off my back, because hardwork has paid into keeping this body running in the best shape it can, to afford work at a job that does not pay enough, yet remain in high spirits, from finally having money for food again.
Yet I do not want to eat, 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. I have written my ways into stories that have caused dead ends. I have written stories that lead nowhere, then to everything; to highs and lows that chaptered artists write. Entire stories not knowing where it is going, but putting one chapter down at a time, only to find that somehow it all makes sense. Then to have it conclude so perfectly that you are left in awe at what you just put yourself through. Writing 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. And not just on keyboard in a word document. That’s not enough. You need pen and paper, a storyline, and to dedicate ten-fifteen days until the story is done. Until you have squeezed that story into existence, 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. Writers. You must write! You must write your songs. You must write your poetry. You must write about who you are familiar characters. You must have settings. Do you not see what writing is? It is history. It is your own mystery. And you must write it. Or, you could be silent, unknown, never to speak a word to anyone. I like documentation, and you obviously do too.
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.
Prose
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