The Book Pt 2

Excerpts from the past that have made it

hey there. so i wrote this in october when i tried to force myself into writing a book in two months. it clearly didn’t work and i thought i hated everything i wrote during that time. but i just looked back to re-read those passages and oddly enough, they are now cutting me so deep. it looks like they will be in my book. here’s one of them. it felt very timely to the way i’m feeling right now. to the way the world is feeling again. i just want to have ownership over my life. and if we are to live in catastrophic times, i am even more indebted to do so.

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thursday october 21st

I wonder where we can carve meaning and what it means to go backwards without regression. Can I go back and pick up what I left? There is something of mine that is missing, that is left in the forgotten field. I have to go back to return to myself, but I promise, I will not behave as if nothing has happened. Entirely too much has which is why I must go back now, because once I am beyond those doors, I can only rush forward. There is a jarring tool of mystery at work in the backbones of my life. In the furnace undercover. What I am asking for is to be delivered to me. Who am I to say it is worth it to push the tray away saying I can’t take on more? There is good blood rushing throughout my life. It means we are living. We are here to stay.

I wonder what to tell you and I wonder what to tell him. All of them. Myself too. I stumble at the thought of saying something permanent. Of the air reaching towards my final thoughts and grasping them. Lodging them into my reality firmly so that I do not forget any of my utterances and proclamations. I teach myself how to cut the sentence short. How to speak in windy roads. I confuse everyone, but myself. I know. I don’t want to admit it, but I do. I know why I speak in circles. I don’t want anything to be left out. I don’t want to make one singular decision that leaves out any of my options. Besides the bad ones, we can definitely get rid of those. But it is my fear to leave something out into the open of my life to be judged and to be taken in. I worry a lot about what people think of me. I wish I didn’t. And sometimes I trick myself into thinking that I don’t, but I do. And that is just a fact that I have to workaround. Something I have to coax myself out of.

So when it came to writing this book, all I could think about, was you. You holding it and reading it. Wondering what it all meant. Holding it upside down and reading it sideways. Seeing maybe if you turned it in a different direction it would suddenly click into place. That my windy words would be steered into alignment. That my freedom would make some kind of sense to you. So that’s what it is really. It's freedom. I need these words to remain free and wild. Dangerous. Cumbersome. Sometimes evil, but not too much. Mostly happy, joyous, very in love. A feeling of love that is so overwhelming it becomes tainted. Almost blue. or passion that runs so hot it turns pink. Rage that bleeds cunning red. All of the above swishing into each other. The page is the only place my thoughts can run catastrophically without anyone watching me do it. I run myself into a burning building. Oh no, wait. I am the burning building. My words are the match. I strike. Pour the gasoline. And watch myself burn. That’s who I am. A woman of eternal death.

You may think you know me but you really don’t. You’ve just caught on to my disposition and poetic trance towards life. But my habits change so viciously if you left me alone for a week you would see how I would become another person. My skin is rapidly evolving at every moment of each day. I burn myself down and rise anew again.

Do you think it’s worth it being any good? Doing the right thing? The number of times I have been scolded for living my life like it’s worth something. As if I don’t have the right to own the minutes of each hour and allow myself to spend them as I like. Even if done in a sloth-like manner?

I deserve to live until death.