I don't want to get too used to you not being here. Sit by myself with a chair facing me and look at it now and then and think of what it would be like if you were here. I conjure a shadow. There is effort in making sure it never becomes bigger than you are, but I'm sorry because I fail often. I didn't intend for this to be your burden. I think you know and you think that's the boy I am in love with. Maybe the girl you wanted to kiss was never me in the first place either. Maybe it is the person you see in my words. I am fooling you too because I am not half as beautiful as I make her to be. 

No thought. No movement. No sound. Just being. Breathing. Now. This. Just as it is. 

Letting go of all that could not be. Letting in all that remains. All that stays. All that does not egg you on with bait. All that comes to settle in the palm of your hand tonight. All that is your due.  

 The weight of adulthood is upon everyone. Most of my friends get bogged down by it on a daily basis. I do too. I don't suffer in the same way because I have pulled myself out of the work rut and general comfort of material life. 
This fear of not doing enough, not being enough comes in inheritance. My father may not say it in so many words but I sense he sees himself as incomplete no matter where he stands. The disappointment trickles down to the both of us kids.  My parents seem to have given themselves up to a certain boredom where the mundane, everyday activities are the only way they can view time in motion.  In this lull of the mundane, all of us are not nearly enough. We shake things up a bit every now and then to make sure we are not machines yet but get back to the drone because we are so used to it. I have an aversion to this system, but also know that if I were not subject to this system I would have found aversion to some other system instead. 

I don’t want to write mindlessly because I know I will end up spilling truths. And truths scare me. We all live in our own worlds and mine is particularly beautiful. In my world, lovers meet to no end. The grass is always green. The wind is always blowing. All things are said and understood and reciprocated and nothing is lost on the way. People help people. No one is hungry for food or love. Words come out without hesitation and are always used to heal.

That’s why I live here. Most people recognise me as an artist but I am only doing my job in putting a picture of my internal landscape on paper. I have now been told that some people will also be ready to pay me good money for it. I never for the money. I’ve just always wanted to be able to get it out of me, if I keep it in too long I get sick. So in a sense I am being paid to turn my insides out. But when I think about it that goes for everyone.

I enjoy sex. On my way to the orgasm I enter the world that I just described above. I have always hoped that the partner with whom I share the bed for this communion is able to see the world in my head but usually they are far too deep in their own. So I don’t try. I close my eyes and swim in it until some of the water escapes me. Once we are done, we head our own way. I deem a certain honesty in it because there is a mutual recognition that communication has been exhausted. I am light headed after the act and head back home to deep rest. Sometimes I cry too. Because I am back in the real world.

I guess everyone is trying to escape in their own way. Very few people see the world for what it actually is. Everyone sees it as how they are. I think those who see the world for what it really is are the ones who go mad. I don’t think I would ever want to go mad. The real world is not kind to mad people. They put them in institutions and lock them up with their own selves. Can you imagine the horror of it?  It might seem like there are no voices around but in their heads they are probably screaming. Sometimes my mind screams too but I shush it because I don’t want to be sent to one of these institutions.

With words I am able to let the madness loose. Open my Pandora’s box. I enjoy the blanket of fiction because I can get away with being anything. I can put blame on those I would never cast a finger upon in real life. I would say I am more forgiving in real life. But the paper helps me unveil my many selves, most of which aren’t very friendly.

Everything overwhelms me. People overwhelm me. Sometimes their presence overwhelms me, sometimes their absence does. And then to come back and spill all their gory details on paper seems like I'm bloodying my hands with their misdeeds. That's probably why I have little or no sympathy for those who spend all of their days making themselves look great by bringing other people down. Dragging everyone to their pity party. If you have to make another person seem terrible to make you look nice, are you really all that nice after all? 

Can you put all of your heart in one place? 

You can't own people. You can pluck them out of their garden and lay them next to you. Stamp their foreheads with your name. Put your mark. Lay your claim. But  you still can't own people. You can only love them and hope they love you back.

I have Art so I'm not dying of Truth. Not today, anyway.

I usually wake up at 5 in the morning without the help of an alarm clock. I know this is the best time to write, and if I do myself justice I might even be able to do a morning run instead of an evening run. But that would mean facing two of my biggest challenges first thing in the morning and once that is done and dusted the day won't hold much for me. Of course That's a shitty excuse. I'll get up and get to it from tomorrow.

Also this obsession with soppy writings about love will have to stop. Most days I'm so romantic that I gross myself out. 

Stupid girl thinks love erupts from the friction between two bodies rubbing against one another.

Short Story Ideas (That I Should Never Pursue)

* Lovers meet after a long time. Wish they hadn't met.
* Man finds love in everything that is not his wife.
* Girl decides to not write about love so that everyone takes her seriously.

Jay, a retired colonel, went to a slaughterhouse for the first time. Spotted a chicken in a corner of a cage packed with his brothers. Bought him and brought him home with his skin on and his heart beating, all this while smiling inwardly for having saved a life. Jay shot it two days later because the ungrateful bird was blind to his great fortune.

Leya resembles a horse in more than one ways. I don't mean this in a derogatory way at all. Everyone saw this in her and she saw this before everyone saw it. I need to specify this because these days it seems that I can't utter a sentence without offending at least one person. She has a big frame, an intimidating jaw held up by a sturdy kind of body that invokes warmth and trust and a sheet of shiny, straight black hair, that has been the envy of all girls in her class.

Leya loves like a horse too. Assuming that horses love like dogs do. You can tell how committed they are to their keepers. The only problem is that you can never tell it by their face, if they are happy or sad to be where they are. This has made it a bit tough for Leya's boyfriends over the years to figure out what she really feels/wants. She can simmer for days on end and no sentiment floats to the surface. This is unnatural, of course, for you blow up like a balloon on the inside threatening to burst. That's probably the only time she resembles a Puffbird. So for a long while nothing is wrong and then suddenly everything is wrong and you can see her galloping away. A few minutes later though, deflated, she trots back towards you.

When I have been away from words for a long period I hesitate a lot while coming back. Fear the many questions I had pushed under the carpet, so that everything would appear clean. Even normal. I worry that when I come back, maybe they wont take me back because of some reason. Maybe sometimes, too long an absence is not short of cheating. 

Sometimes when I find myself being swallowed up by a difficult text I often stop to wonder if I really want to go there. I'm sure that the space I will enter will be complex and terrifying and I will get to learn all these new things but I keep worrying if I will be able come up to breathe and find my way to the shore. By shore I mean the real world where we carry out our everyday thing; where we function with people who don't waste too much time thinking about things, who are mostly just grateful that they can get by. While I am delving deep into these books I'm constantly hoping to bring something back with me. Not something that is complex only to make me look smart. (That kind of bluff gets caught sooner than later). Not necessarily a lesson even but just a simple memento that would make us a little bit happier, a little more at peace and thus make life a little bit easier. After all, what's the point of knowledge if you cannot put out something good in the world?

But that is only possible if you believe me.