by the time i crawled into bed last night it was this morning. initially i passed out quick, anxiety blurred by that final whiskey sour but then i woke up again with mind and heart racing a couple of hours later, light creeping in from the hall and the basement window showing what looked like twilit morning.
after i got home from open mic, F. and i stayed up late talking about capitalism and the ailing rhetoric of the occupation movement, all its potential and all our cynicism. it feels good to know someone else who is brave with words, this space would not exist without their inspiration and encouragement. my journals would sit ashamed on the green shelf in my basement room, gathering dust and years. instead i’ve boxed them all up, i’m thinking about re-reading them and then burning them. i get tied to the place i am by the sheer fact of their physical presence. when i think about travelling indefinitely i first think, but what about my journals? a ball(point) and chain if ever there was one. sentimentality is useful to me, i better estimate where i’m going (where i’d like to be) by knowing where i’ve been, but sometimes it’s too leaden.
i cherish this space for always feeling like a way forwards, even when i make mistakes. not turns i can take back (or would), but turns i’d take differently if i were to it again. i like the perspective that journaling creates, sometimes it feels like drawing a map both forwards and backwards, reminds me a little of an etch-a-sketch.
this week i have frothed with words, a little at the mouth but moreso at the hand: keyboard, pen, typewriter–racing mind, fluttering heart.

recurring: not as a weight but as a buoy.


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