Tag: waste

I spend much time alone these days in spite of words about physical presence. I blow people off time and again and, realistically, I can’t expect them to be around forever. The expectations regarding my own loneliness, happiness, and sadness are adjusted accordingly. I am not in the kind of hope that causes a heart to rise and crash. My hope is a lingering thread, one I follow from day to day as I engage in my work and find contentment in simpler activities. I am obsessive about waste. Wasted time, wasted energy, paper and plastic I don’t need to throw away. I obsess about my power, who I can overwhelm and in what manner. I think of myself and write of the same.

“I,” like no other pronoun is important enough to write down. Most of the active names in my head are far from where I am.

I will not be published this year. Not for lack of submission (I’m not even there yet), but because the work is not good enough for my standards. All of this unfinished work reeks of a lack of social consciousness. I read instead. I think of Gogol (obsessed, perhaps) and his death from malnutrition at the age of forty-three. I wonder if I am too restrictive in my elimination of the unnecessary. I do not foresee this as a possible future, but I do reflect on alternatives. Fat sugar daddy dead from cardiac arrest at the age of forty-three. Father and husband dead from inhalation of carbon exhaust at the age of forty-three. Man reported missing and presumed dead in Aruba at the age of forty-three. Possibilities can make one’s head hurt. It is no wonder that I keep such tight reins on my destiny.

Reflecting on a social life: there are readings I’ve stopped attending. I derive genuine joy from seeing people stand up and read their creativity, or their honesty, especially the shy people or those who don’t know what to expect. The blood always races, even my own after all the times I’ve read or presented in front of crowds. I project certainty when I can. I’m listening to you, up there. Shaky hands are incredible. The pause to swallow a lump in one’s throat is a moment to reflect on what’s missing, such as a good friend or a cold hand seeking my warmth.

I have a rare headache. The balcony is covered in cobwebs.

I spend much time alone these days in spite of words about physical presence. I blow people off time and again and, realistically, I can’t expect them to be around forever. The expectations regarding my own loneliness, happiness, and sadness are adjusted accordingly. I am not in the kind of hope that causes a heart to rise and crash. My hope is a lingering thread, one I follow from day to day as I engage in my work and find contentment in simpler activities. I am obsessive about waste. Wasted time, wasted energy, paper and plastic I don’t need to throw away. I obsess about my power, who I can overwhelm and in what manner. I think of myself and write of the same.

“I,” like no other pronoun is important enough to write down. Most of the active names in my head are far from where I am.

I will not be published this year. Not for lack of submission (I’m not even there yet), but because the work is not good enough for my standards. All of this unfinished work reeks of a lack of social consciousness. I read instead. I think of Gogol (obsessed, perhaps) and his death from malnutrition at the age of forty-three. I wonder if I am too restrictive in my elimination of the unnecessary. I do not foresee this as a possible future, but I do reflect on alternatives. Fat sugar daddy dead from cardiac arrest at the age of forty-three. Father and husband dead from inhalation of carbon exhaust at the age of forty-three. Man reported missing and presumed dead in Aruba at the age of forty-three. Possibilities can make one’s head hurt. It is no wonder that I keep such tight reins on my destiny.

Reflecting on a social life: there are readings I’ve stopped attending. I derive genuine joy from seeing people stand up and read their creativity, or their honesty, especially the shy people or those who don’t know what to expect. The blood always races, even my own after all the times I’ve read or presented in front of crowds. I project certainty when I can. I’m listening to you, up there. Shaky hands are incredible. The pause to swallow a lump in one’s throat is a moment to reflect on what’s missing, such as a good friend or a cold hand seeking my warmth.

I have a rare headache. The balcony is covered in cobwebs.