it hits. I've hated and destroyed and done some shit, that—
that I can't even believe—how horrible I can be.
All the while I've felt a meandering idiot
barely understanding this thing—this thing that we do—
this thing called living. Living and walking and waking and
working—sometimes playing, or always playing and never
working or waking because I am still awake. I feel like somewhere
there is a lot of grasping: for air, for purpose, for light, for love, for
attention. Attention and holding and never letting go and seeing
with my own eyes how close I can get to another person—
some other completely random person—some person!
And always walking through some kind of thickness
with the airiness in my head thinking I could be this
or I could be that or I could easily be everything.
But—whoa, this is what I am: I am this thing put together
by all that I've ever known with as much love
as other people could spare with only the dreams
of my musings to guide me or destroy me.
So whatever that is: I'm a good one.
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