Wednesday, February 13, 2013

What is this Post About? If I Knew, I Would Give it a Title

I sit before the computer and tell myself that I have to write several paragraphs here, it has been way too long that I have been cheating myself by posting photographs taken hastily and scratching a few lines below them, convincing myself that I am writing my mandatory five words per day. Yet, I cannot narrow down on one thing or several similar things to write about just now. The pile of things I must say rises every passing day, it has long gone over my head and I am drowned in the guilt of not writing about them and others. Perhaps the trick is to be the ostrich in the sand and ignore the words flying smack into my face and whistle away a happy tune as I look away upward at a clear January sky.

It goes on, it: time. I write bad poetry, obsess over Sylvia Plath, not that her poetry was bad at all, imagine writing, write some, talk to people, read and all those other things that people do in the course of a mundane day. Not that they, the people are mundane. Not all, at least. 

There should be happy tidings soon. Nothing spectacular just yet, but my little squeal at the potential there is in being alive. Everything is elsewhere, chaotic, complicated, complex, could-do-better-ish. But someone today said to me, albeit in a very different context, that I don't have to do this alone. That itself is a tremendous giant leap in the general scheme of things, having someone say that. Even if the poetry is bad, the pages are being filled. Overall, it, it: life, isn't as bad as it could be at this point and space in time.

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