Im awake.

I’m awake because, I’m always awake.
I’m writing because, I have to. As I have begun to realize this is something I must periodically do in my life, the less I think, the better. But then again, that is the problem with this thing. Its not a diary, It’s not journal, It’s not even a place for these entries really. Then…
What is this? Somewhere where I am supposed to be honest? Maybe that is what I am supposed to be. I find myself crunching down and editing and condensing my meanderings to fit whoever reads this thing, when maybe, I should just say whatever the hell I want. I have been making the efforts to be more vulnerable lately. So I will let this thing die, and become abandonded, that’s how I like it anyways, that’s how it began.
The truth is.
I’m so scared, I wish I weren’t but I am. And I’m lucky enough to be able to say it I guess. I want so badly, and Im not sure what or what for. All I know for certain is that I want shelly’s old piano and a room I can have to myself, and friends, and the freedom to create. I just don’t want to fail. I never have been very good with that whole transition thing. I suppose this is helping.
Maybe if I could just describe what I miss.
If I could just recall how your stature was just slightly above mine. If I could steal back all the ideas you stole from me, I wouldn’t. I don’t care, I’m weary in that way.
If I could muster up a memory of what it smelled like then maybe I would be happy.
Like…dust, lonely dust. Poor dust, poor poor dust. I’ll stir you up.

I’m seeking out kids because I wish to be more selfless this year. Or maybe it’s just that kids have always brought me joy, and now, I can have them for a year hands free. I hate to admit that.

If I could jus remember what it is that I desired last summer. Was it him? Maybe, I desired him the way I desired coffee on Monday mornings, and naps at two. Or I desired humanity, there is something about the summer that makes you so much more human that you normally are. Something about the winter that makes you less. Something about the fall that gives you hope for it, and the spring which renews that hope in you after the winter has ravaged it away from you. But aint that just life. Just when you think you have a handle on something, it dies, its gone, and suddenly comes back to surprise you just when youre on the brink of extinction yourself. That is humanity, and that is humane.
Yes, I take my humanity very seriously. This is all we have, this is all we are. Hallelujah. Take your thoughts and nurse them, take your feelings and let them intensify, cultivate them. Exploitation? No. honesty I think.

I would like to describe that moment when someone begins to sing and your eyes water and you have to look away. Because it’s so rare. Dear little one, you have made me spill my saline, stirred something in me, yum. I loveee that feeling, but you have to hide it, you have to run away, to secret it, because im afraid if it becomes more tactile, more real, more unspoken, it will cease to exist, I must preserve that awkward, very, very, very well. Perhaps I should not then, have written this.

I want to describe the feeling of gaining weight in my cheeks, and Naomi and who she is. And I want to describe how someone named clara might die in waco and how. Bizarre but reassuring.
cultivate your habits, habits are style.
It seems I live for nothing more than descriptions, and to find things suitable for them.

The hardwood floors and the vinyl that was my companion. The look of you and whatever came over me when we jumped in the lake and I saw your tattoos. Im afraid I’ll never have a summer this way again. Im afraid ill never be locked in a cemetery with anyone again until I’m a resident of it.
I should stop but I wont. I want to describe, and scribe, this place, this light, this tension, this noise. Everything, the feeling of it all, the immediate comfortability. The way my heart settled in when I first met that house, and the way it left unsettled. The cat pee, the club that you joined, the men that you’ve had, The woman you are. The friends you take, the trouble you keep, the foods you make, the life you lead.
The people around you.

As much as I believe in words, Its so hard to find an accurate group of them to describe you. I don’t really know that feeling, It’s not love, It’s not depth, It’s like….accuracy. Your look is so accurate and your presense is so inviting I’d rather just stick to the look of you for fear that my attempts to sew myself to your insides will unstitch quickly and tether. So let me grab my fabric glue, and quickly attach myself to your outsides and say, that I have never seen a pair of eyes so childish. They practically reached our and grabbed mine. Strangled the optic nerve and sucked iris bursts from them so that I was blinded. Maybe that is why yours are so amazing, they steal the life from everyone else’s. I don’’t really know what you are to me.
I wonder If I had the choice between being able to see the most beautiful thing in the world and going blind, or never seeing anything beautiful again, which I would choose. I don’t know why I asked that.

Im not an automaton at all, so come and get me.