Back for Seconds

TOO MUCH ALONE TIME




too much alone time....


I get it. may I be excused?

Bicyclical

I've been keeping a journal of buzzwords and buzzthoughts I want to keep track of for writing fuel. Only I haven't been using them to write. I can draw parallels between the struggles I have with writing and the struggles I have with accepting affection or admiration. I suppose both stem from a fear of the unknown... a fear of what's to come. What if what I write is sub par? What if they only like me until they get to know me? What if what I write sets a new bar I'll never again meet? What if they love more about me than I could ever love about them?

How do I settle that score?

I feel like I'm comfortably walking a balance beam that stretches past my line of sight. I anticipate performing the same task forever and wonder what I'll encounter along the way. There's an audience of people around me; some want to know why I haven't learned more tricks--cartwheels, handsprings, flips and such--and pressure me to accomplish more. Some praise my consistent beam-walking prowess and encourage me to keep on.

I don't know which I'm performing for.

If I strip the performance away, I'm walking from point A to point B. Life to death.

On a more tangible, less morbid journey, point B is the end of this lease. What's the next step? I try not to think about it, but it's like not wondering goes against my nature. I have fully realized that I think for fun. I think for fun so often that it stops being fun.

I think about how I should have written more by now. Performed more poems. Started a portfolio. Earned a featured artist spot.

I think about how I should be reading more voraciously. Finish books before I open new ones.

I think about how I should encourage more friends. Write more letters. Make more calls.

I think about how I should travel more. Use my passport. Visit people I miss.

I think about how I should take more pictures. Get more sun. Save more money.

I think about how I should spend more time doing these things than I do thinking about them.

And then I go to sleep.

When I wake up, I haven't accomplished any of these things, but I've had more dreams. When I wake up, I don't consider the shoulds anymore. I open up a book or start a movie or text a friend or eat an apple and pat myself on the knee for doing any of these without underestimating what I've done.

And then I underestimate what I've done.