Here I am now

In this land of opportunity, city of summer, and house of light. This is my home.

Then why do things make me so sad? Why does chance and existence become some sort of meshed-up mind ball, tangled, roped, and to the point of almost writhing in my socks, up my legs and disguising itself as one of the knots in my hair.

Maybe because I don't brush my hair. Well, occasionally I do, when I can't put it in a normal ponytail. When it's become a natty black marshmallow that I'm trying to condense into a liquid string. When it becomes embarrassing to be around me in public.

Sometimes I'm embarrassed to be around me in public.

I frustrate my self. Cravings, desires, wantings and not wantings. Wanting to be able to do everything and nothing all at the same time. Laziness and frenetic-ness all wrapped up like crazy. Crazy glue. How the hell do you get it off?

So I need to really start writing. Working on something, anything, just to keep moving forward. And what will it accomplish? A sense of pride? Maybe. But it will be a little something. Baby steps, as they say. It's hard to move forward. It's easier to stay behind. To complain and moan and gripe, to loll around in misery and stagnancy. Stagnancy stinks. Literally and figuratively. Sitting here stinks.

I want to write something but I don't know what. So I'm writing this. Sitting here, fuming in my stagnancy stink and trying to find the motivation to do. To move. Forward. Something. Anything. What, though. Words, letters, symbols. I yearn to study again. I yearn to talk, to communicate, to learn, to feel the forward motion of all the breaths around me that are heading in the same direction.

But when it's just me here, it's just me. Just my breath, my sighs, my uncertainty. I am alone. In my head. Unsure of where to go. What to say. So I say this. All this stuff that's typed onto this floating page in the system of binary 1's and 0's. The magic web.

I need to regurgitate and fill myself with a new food. An undiscovered food. Something I haven't tasted before. A new recipe. I will devise it, imagine it, create it. Bake it, broil it, stew it, toss it. Share it with the world. Hey! Look at this! Not only is it beautiful, but it tastes delicious too! Come and see! Please, come and have a taste.

I do this literally, the regurgitation. But not the sharing. I need to change it over to my real life. The one that is the real me. Not the hiding me, the pretending me, the mask that is not me. I need to make metaphors with my metaphors, so that I really do exist. So that my breath is the only thing I need to propel forward.