Too much to think about. Another day of work, like any other. Home for the first time in a few days. I am tired. I walked down Clinton Street, light rain chilling my feet. I should have put my boots on. I listened to my dear friend jeff sing songs as I walked, remembering the past and other things. Waiting for life proper to begin, I suppose. All these things on my agenda to-do, problems falling away to make way for lesser ones. I guess this means that once I take care of everything I'm supposed to do I'll just sit down and do everything I ought to; meditate, write, read, yoga, whatever. The thought of actually having the time to do these things is far worse than the frustration of feeling that I don't have enough, which isn't true anyway. On the walk, full of thoughts I knew I would lose to the air. Imagine a machine directly wired to your brain, dictating your thoughts and writing the words, mentally going back, erasing, correcting... Facing a computer screen, it is a feeble attempt to play catch-up. To try and remember. But moments come and go and I shouldn't lament it. I walked to Longfellow's hoping to find a used copy of the Hobbit for my housemates. Wanting to walk in the air. Remind myself that the journey is the destination. No hurry. No rush.
I'm tired of generalizations and wide blanket statements. If I ever get off my ass enough to write something vast and great, I swear I will never end it with phrases so insulting to any reader's intelligence as "that lives within us all" or "humanity" or anything else that implies that I know about anything more than my own experience and a few details here and there. I'd like to start writing more poetry but am too cynical about everything. Self-sabotage firmly in place. Procrastination begets despair and inaction. It's sometimes as simple as sitting down to do it, but I am very weak in this regard.
Questions are always good things, but focus is still necessary.
They did not have the book I wanted. Felt a small disappointment and the urge to compensate by buying something I didn't need. Already buried by books to read... I walked out, my feet dry again, and played the second side of the disc, my friend christian singing to me of redemption and sorrow. I think perhaps all this musing is merely artificial, brought on by the music and the rain. This is convoluted nonsense. Tired.
I'm tired of generalizations and wide blanket statements. If I ever get off my ass enough to write something vast and great, I swear I will never end it with phrases so insulting to any reader's intelligence as "that lives within us all" or "humanity" or anything else that implies that I know about anything more than my own experience and a few details here and there. I'd like to start writing more poetry but am too cynical about everything. Self-sabotage firmly in place. Procrastination begets despair and inaction. It's sometimes as simple as sitting down to do it, but I am very weak in this regard.
Questions are always good things, but focus is still necessary.
They did not have the book I wanted. Felt a small disappointment and the urge to compensate by buying something I didn't need. Already buried by books to read... I walked out, my feet dry again, and played the second side of the disc, my friend christian singing to me of redemption and sorrow. I think perhaps all this musing is merely artificial, brought on by the music and the rain. This is convoluted nonsense. Tired.