sometimes it's like a really quick laugh that appears out of nowhere, like,
and ends really quickly and abruptly, and I imagine the little graph of amplitude going 'blip', little puffs of explosions almost visible like breaths in a past winter's breath.
it's almost as if there is more to be said, now more than ever.
once almost falling over out of pure joyousness, once
* * *
can you believe it? can you? I am made out of flesh and blood; I am a being, I am here. some days I am tired. some days I am less tired. my shoulders are twisted into knots. I am young and I am excited, most days, and I take the subway up and say hello to the city's arteries.
every day, lately every single day I ask myself: "how am I going to live my life?" and I ask this, again and again, and sometimes I think of being fourteen and walking across a really windy field, and I still ask these questions and they will never go away, nor will I have any answers, nor will the answers mean anything, really, so in the end it's just me asking over and over, thinking to myself. how will I live my life? with what steps will I want to take? how will I jump from place to place? how will I situate myself, how will I want to move, what trips will I take, how will I travel, what people will I talk to, which letters to write? incessant questions dominating the day-to-day to-day. it's just me looking straight ahead walking, a lot of walking these days, walking along (streets / avenues / blocks / steps / corridors / through doors, under trees, beside cars) and thinking about, well, you know, the stuff I would be thinking about, of course. and in the midst of this feeling my body, my being.
* * *
it is so exasperatingly impossible to communicate sometimes, and the more things move the less I know and the more I know, and it's really because I'm just always trying to express what's on the tip of my tongue, at the end of my grasp, it's really just a kind of taste in my mouth that I want to desperately try to express, like this, I'd like to say while gesturing furiously and gesticulating in fury and getting nowhere, and I can try and it can be fun for the moment, until the inexorable nonporousness of these boundaries becomes too sobering to even talk and then we all circulate in these cells, doing dances like honeybees, loops, figure eights.
in the end if there's any lesson I've learned is that old adages are always true, in some sense of the word true. mistakes have consequences, and they break things irrevocably. some things are undoable. even old, noble trees can die suddenly. everything ends at any point. and so when someone says "mistakes are okay", it's not because mistakes are any less of a mistake, it's that in the context of a shattering ineffable one-way direction that you've just stepped into, there's still space to have things be okay, hopefully, Okay, whatever that okay means.
* * *
sometimes also I imagine being a parent and being worried that you messed things up, which is horrible, I can imagine, because it's so true, because really there's nobody to say "it'll all be alright" because it won't be, you know, it's just going to be okay, not alright al-right all right, but just o-kay.
I feel that by the time one becomes a parent one would understand the immense, almost soul-breaking responsibility, and the responsibility is only as intense as the knowledge of how bad you could fuck up, you know, you could really fuck up in rearing your kids, and it will just have been that, laid bare on a simple table and just that just that. what you'll have left is just to have messed up the thing you would have cared about the most.
these dreams I had about trees, about things growing and healing; they're just that, myths, dreams, these images, oh, oh. oh don't you know, you know, oh oh. just that, myths, dreams, these images, you know. oh-oh. oh-oh. there's one song for tomorrow, but this one's for today, you know. oh-oh, oh-ohhhh.