On Being

Daydreams of guitars, primed canvas, chords, acrylics. I want to create, but don't trust myself to produce something worth creating. Another sign of my endless self-doubt and lack of self-value, I suppose. 

Reality of impatient customers, sticky dishes, bottomless glasses, subservience. I run from table to table, trying to keep them all happy, but failing miserably. Is this what being an adult is? Never happy with where you are in life? Always wishing for something more? If it is, I want to run away from it all, escape to some far off place where I can pick apples in orchards or help bring in the day's catch in return for a place to sleep and a carafe of wine. 

Wishy Washy Pandering

Oh jeez. 

I know I should ignore the ifs, whys, wheres, hows, whats, and just keeping writing the words down. But I want to KNOW and I want to know NOW. 

I'm sitting on my bed in a over-sized shirt and underwear, reveling in an empty house, listening to Debussy. I'm typing words and wanting to call it writing. The words could maybe be a story, an empty story full of hot air and worthless platitudes. It could mean little to me in the end, and even less to her.

But. But. 

It could be a tempestuous tale, wroth with significance and tears and smiles.

Attempts

Listening to Amanda Palmer always inspires me. I want to work with her on something someday, even if it is just to run her merch table at a show. 

How do you write about a person who wants nothing to do with you? I'm not sure what I think I want to say, just that I want to talk about her. I suppose I'll pour it all out, only to hide it away where the light of day can't find it. 

That's not true. I'll send it to my other half, to critique and comment and sympathize. 

Empty apartment we

would have been shared.

A lovely sunny place

with nooks and cranies packed

full of books and notebooks and knitting needles.

Second Time Around

There is another blog, floating around the interweb, with a similar name and a similiar style. I lost it, can't find it. 

I sit drinking coffee, reading words written by others, both hard and digital copies. A new phone sits next to me, another sign of the consumerism I haven't quite given up. 

As I read, I wonder. 

I've got words (stories-characters-plots-twists-endings-beginnings) in my head. But the creation eludes me. I want and want and want. Wanting does not mean success. Wanting does not mean words on a page at the end of the day. 

I've got a paper journal, full of thoughts and emotions. And another, full of poetry better left unwritten. I've got an electronic outlet, full of rambles and half-conceived ideas.