The Desire to be Heard

Its that time of day. The days experience catching up with yesterdays exercise. the sleep that didn't come when I woke up, my throat on fire, my legs burning. Sweat in the bedroom. A feeling that all was not all together well.

The time it takes for me to catch up, maybe tonight Ill sink down into the couch and live with small animals, pets scurrying by, swinging their paws at one another.

Left to be understood, lets strip the context from everything, so we see things as all inter-connected, the hallway at the Russell House. Why do I miss my old world so much?

Why is so much of who I am now is wrapped up in who I was back then? If I were to go back, to return, nothing would be the same. All times changed, people dead or in the ground, lost in themselves or in other people.

Why is it this way, why is the world mysteriously underneath something [else. We pick up an object, a bottle of water, and underneath it lives the collective experience with that object. It's never too far away from us, slipping through our hands the way water does. and then its down the drain, and there's no use chasing water, because it all falls away.

There are multiple levels of what may be called reality. Multiple reasons why we get up in the morning. And strange how on the way to work this morning the light was that contained in the middle of the afternoon, not at six thirty in the morning.

A drive on the way, lack of moisture in my bones, dry my head swimming in the morning fog that burned off long ago.

The soul of an artist, but one who cowers in response to criticism. If we have to congratulate ourselves, we are all done for.

I left my manuscript behind, didn't email it to myself this morning, now one day behind.

If I could, I'd bottle all the advice Ive ever been given and swallow some of it and spit the rest out.

This then, this ranting writing on a wall, not shared, but lived in, like dungarees, like chorded slacks with all of the grooves worn smooth, so it feels more like felt.

Walking in these pants is like wearing drapes, like whatever is between your legs is a stage, and with each step you unveil whats between the lines, the chords in the slacks, the performances gone unremarked.

Its hard to know how we are doing when everyone keeps walking away.

This desire to be heard, to write something down, a record, moment to moment of history, why the obsession? Why can't I just die and be content only with those I've touched on the past? Why do I want a future? Why do I want my name to be written in a tiny font, on the cover of a small volume of a novel, tucked away at the back of the store, after not selling a single copy. Why is it why do I feel the need. Why I cant just fade away, to be forgotten.


Is all of this for myself, or is any of it for the benefit of other people? Grease the wheel of thought. Things have a tenuous relationship with gravity. I have a fleeting relationship with reality. It leaves me alone during the strangest times. Who and with what person?

Over and out.