leave me alone and I'll come home

I am adrift

Which is funny, really, all things considered
myself, adrift amongst the waves
waving or drowning?
or both all at once

I've lost my way and don't know where to find me
and maybe that's ok
maybe none of it matters
not the fact that I sleep at night
and awake in the morning
and eat sometimes and work sometimes and have time to read and to sit still and just
be still

maybe none of it matters.
Maybe it's not bad.
It's certainly restful.

But I've never liked restful
Never liked silence or stillness
Or endless days which march after one another in a single-file line
Uniform and predictable.

I've lost my way, on this vacation in the sun
and now I don't know if there's a real world to go back to.

what a ship really is... is freedom

And I, and I, and I, she said, am in love with life. Not in a gentle, sweet, and charmed sort of way, but in a no-holds-barred, screaming through life in the dark or with the lights on, pulling and yanking and holding too tight and running running, forever running, to see the brightest sun or the widest open blue ocean.

What is life, if not a hundred thousand priceless moments of pure emotion? Why spend your time doing anything but seeking the shortest distance between them? Why waste your life away in mediocrity when it could be technicolor splashes of light strewn across a razor-bright sky?

I, for one, see no reason to sleep through the best things that could ever happen. Why would I? Why would anyone ever?

The reason I love standing at the edge of the ocean is the same reason I love staring into the sky is the same reason I love the open road: there is nothing, nothing more beautiful than a wide-open horizon stretching into forever before you.

I need to sleep less, not more

'I'm like a shark,' he said. 'If I stop moving, I'll die.'

but I've been quiet in the water for days and days
(for weeks and weeks)
and no one can see me breathe anymore
through the haze of my own sloth
the cacophony in my own mind
the sheer impenetrable baffled stressbubble that surrounds me
if I'm lucky they'll believe my radio silence stems from business
not from utter lack of anything to say
I am making no progress and I hate it
hate it enough to rage against myself endlessly
to shout and scream and rake nails down the inside of my own head
but not enough to fix it
not enough to make a change
to take the necessary steps towards resolution
towards an end to this deliberation
to do something instead of just sitting
and waiting
for the world to swallow me whole

the inside of my head is dangerous
mazelike, labyrinthine
I get lost there so often
and I don't really know how or why I am made of so little action
I like to think of myself as someone who leaps, who takes risks
someone capable of follow-through
but really, here I sit
and wait
wondering if, perhaps, it wouldn't be easier...

but of course I'm too addicted to adventure to ever actually want that
I just need to bring myself to seek it
again

to be better, stronger, faster

I'm not smart enough

No, no, bear with me
I've never been smart enough
Never been clever enough
or witty enough
I'm no good at wordgames or puns
puzzles or codes or clues
I like things to be spelled out for me
except that's not true at all
I just... wish I could get from point a to point b to point k by myself
instead of forever needing someone else to point out the connections for me

I want a brilliant mind that can make wild(ly accurate) leaps of logic
the kind of brain which uses words like weapons, precise and deadly and accurate
I want to be the sort of person who would make a good codebreaker
or spy or gamemaster or writer or adventurer
maybe that's it - I've always wanted to be a great adventurer

but I don't think well enough or quickly enough
don't make the right connections fast
and I would always be beat by the opposition
or caught or trapped or just be too slow and have all the hostages die

oh well
just silly childhood aspirations anyway
right?

a picture is worth a thousand words

Tonight I am thinking in colors
writing seems almost lackluster, compared to the brilliant saturating images floating behind my mind's eye
I itch to pick up a camera
take a shot
paint a picture
brilliantest blue and a gentle wash of yellow and highlights of red
as though the photo itself were laughing
as the breeze ran through its hair

Tonight I want a different medium
to be creating images directly
shutter click flash and whirl
instead of to be describing endlessly form, function, relative placement and lighting
every detail having to be compressed into words
in a vain attempt to show what I see fully
to translate a visual from behind my eyes to behind yours

maybe I should pick up some film

eos wakes and drags her rosy fingers o'r the world

it's dawn and the light is
silvery or golden or some other such stereotype
the air between here and the mountains outside my windows is
a million shades of gentle pastel
it's beautiful, and I feel I should write about it
It deserves words
But right now I'm tired and as I reach for them they all
look at me and laugh and do not want to come out

I, who am so addicted to communication
have times I want to share the insides of my mind with someone
but the thought of trying to pick up the phone
of trying to actually talk
just seems utterly unbearable

And then I sit and try to write, and the next thing I know I have a post
When I thought that I couldn't possibly say anything
That expressing words was just too daunting

Of course, all the right ones stay locked up tight inside my head

(it looks like a painting or a postcard or something unreal)

God is nigh