Writers block is real. It chews through your bones and renders you lifeless. A numbing of your cerebral cortex that forces you to think about everything but the task at hand. The courage of commitment has never been a strong suit for me. Though strong willed I may be, drifting amongst the stars is where you'll usually find me. Gawking in awe of the science of matter, space and time. So as my soul lays in the belly of the clouds I find myself faint with anticipation. The unraveling of minds between lustful glances and the smell of pheromones used to be enough and it's not anymore.
I'm consistently perplexed. As Alice said, "I can't go back to yesterday because I was a different person then" I find myself estranged from my own desires. As if love were a dead horse I keep beating, trivial romance spewed from my veins. I was lost at war. But a gentle knowing beneath the flesh softly beats and told me I was ready to love; myself. When I become overtaken by the hunt of a lover I am seemingly replaced with an invasion of the body snatchers version of myself. I don't know that person, and from what I see I don't like her. Above and beyond for what? For more grown-up angst and beer? Resentment and soft tacos?
Nobody is going to want to do these things you fantasize about. A life of fresh air and a sea of adventure. An open road and a few good books. I think life in the normal sense is lost in translation. A mass scale game of telephone and none of us really know the truth. Except for a very few.
I think that sometimes the only reason my nerve endings crave skin in the first place is because the romanticism of the media. Chic flicks have us all fucked up. It looks so good on tv... even when the couple temporarily splits in the middle of the movie, and then you root for them because you just know it's got to be love, and the good guys always win.... It has us demented from reality. It doesn't work like that, and if I've never really lived my life then how do I know who I am? A coming of ages mid life crisis. Who really wants to spend that long with one person? That has got to get boring. And dating is like a game of Russian roulette except for all the chambers have bullets except one. And you don't die from the repeated gun shot wounds to the head. You just develop soft serve scoops of daddy issues until you burst all over someone else with all your crap in some attempt to be venerable. It's grotesque.
Interesting fact, the word attach originated in the 1500s and actually meant to take or seize. Like to a tax collector. Does no one else find it odd that when you attach yourself to a person your actually giving them a piece of you to take? You're taxing yourself.
Also I need cows in my future. Like when I settle down. Seriously, cows. I just want them to live their lives happily. Compromise after you've been alone for so long seems redundant.
The last will and testament of the eccentric hot mess that I am. I want to be free. The exacerbation of my journey filled eyes leaves me with wanderlust. My soul is a vegabond. In my version of myself I am an astronaut, my legs my ship, and the earth my space. I want to see everything. I need to. My being screams at me with urgency always, but this; this is a knowing. A humming consistantly growling louder from the time of self realization. An always there neglected sense of consciousness. I feel more selfish than before. But isn't the path I take supposed to be that important to me? My purpose?
I find it remarkable that my dreams don't fancy the chaos of the rich or famous. How nulling and over played to the senses that must be. Rather, unstrapping the weights and toxicities piece by piece to unhinge this life of subpar mediocritys.
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