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.

Morrows

I am in New York City with my only brother, and the trees have blossomed, and the puddles are deeper here. I marvel at the notion that this city liberates from a distance but oppresses at arm's length, and I can feel both arms encircling the island the way they do a friend. New York is a friend to whom I give little, for she takes twice what I offer. I wander in the wrong direction and without direction and for lack of direction. I walk into the wind. Most bridges look the same and you'd sink the same no matter which you fell from.

Background tracks spring from subway station performers and taxi honks and peripheral strangers' headphones. The same strangers might make eye contact more than once; each time that's not the first suspends within it a silent "you again?" The line between native and visitor blurs like layered languages do. A bookshelf's contents determine its owner's character, and the rent exists to remind the owner that Owner is a misnomer.

I do not live here and I do not want to, at least for now, and that now is my only future.

I will worry about tomorrow

tomorrow.

Echo

God sat with me on a hill tonight. We picked dandelions apart and He said we could do it forever. That we're in no hurry. That He'd teach me everything I need to know about not being in a hurry.

I don't know where I'm gonna go after this, but I'm not going to search for it anymore.

I'm going to sit on this hill, pick the dandelions apart, and enjoy the company.

And my computer is going to die, so I'm going to watch another movie. Oh, but first, this rumination: Life is heavy. We search for someone to make it lighter, but it's easy to forget that life is ours to make lighter for them. Give them half of your load, but carry half of theirs. Don't worry; you're strong enough to carry a whole. Remember?

Misc.

some facts about me, as I understand them?

I am wearing a secondhand baseball jersey. Grayson Buckeyes. red. Miller, #9.
I froze a bowl of clementine slices. they taste like tiny citrusy jewels; I am a genius.
I am living my last teenaged week, and I'm trying not to think about it.
I don't feel anxious at all, except when I wonder why I suddenly stopped feeling anxious
I miss sweater season already.
The new Blogger interface tells you all about your page views and readership, and I have readers in Alaska! HEY ALASKA:)!

I mean, that's pretty exciting. I love Alaska. back to the facts--I want to live in Alaska.
I look for dealbreakers like they're colorful, plastic, candy-filled eggs.
I am shockingly capable of keeping my room spotless.
I love little twinkly Christmas lights. I would light a whole house with them if I could.
I want to be a writer. I don't know how to do it.
I love how my room smells while my windows are open.
I am going to learn how to ride a motorcycle.
I hope I pet an elephant one day.

Danke, Darlin'

I've never thanked my commenters, but I need to. You're the only ones with the care and courage to respond to what I say, and really, I write for you.

Thank you.

:]

Overeasy

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Overwhelmed feels hot. Cold sometimes. Underwhelmed has a chill to it, or a slight sweat, a measure of discomfort that can't be placed. Whelmed is a breeze through an open car window, a creamsicle sun considering its set past the mountains, a hot air balloon that no longer rises but never falls.