Void Depletion - Little by Little
Healing writing, I could call it. The lack of euphony of it makes it unsuitable. The infinitive feels equally so and "heal to write" makes it complicated.
There is something to the brick walls that make up houses around Cambridge and downtown Boston that make them awfully appealing to me. They soothe me.
I have been walking non-stop lately. I have been walking for about 11 months now. I have no idea when this will stop. I feel it coming to an end, but somehow it is not quite done. There is so much I need to shed.
For as much as we have relocated to Boston, apparently, I cannot get myself to feeling entirely here. Have I hoarded beyond the physicality of me? Could I be facing a blind difficulty to let go of what has been this far? How much of my questioning is senseless?
We have automated thought. Mental activity has been esteemed so high it has overreacted. Anyone would say restless thinking is bound to conclude somewhere enlightening.
Philosophy.
What happens when you focus on breathing? Shut your eyes and breathe. Will you?
I no longer know what side of the road is the right one for me to drive. I have forgotten what side of the street to look at first in order to cross. Costa Rica was not what I had comprehended. 35 years later, how do you work that into your day-to-day living?
Children in Kenya are starving. They smile, but they are starving. Some cry and plead.
They are starving.
How can I be the same after seeing that?
I stop. Cry. Keep breathing further.
There is a knot in my throat to which I cannot quite be oblivious.
Beckett is staring at me. He does so incessantly. I do not mean this as metaphor. There is literally a Beckett book staring at me in font size who-knows-what-is-the-equivalent-to-11-inches. I had to look up the inches. My head thinks in the metric system. That makes me look stupid every time someone talks to me in inches and I have no idea how much that is.
What good would it be if I focused on writing and showed the world the way I think and feel when I think about Beckett's theater? Or about the color of my skin in regards to how I am allowed to feel?
I will stand up for the immigrants in my art-making. There are vows I make to myself as I blow air out of my saxophone hoping it will connect me to a larger source in this Universe. Where does that get me? Under the spiritual section at the library, you could find me looking at astrology or mindfulness. A hippie, some call me. Not enough, I know. I will never be anything enough for me or others. Is that down-playing my abilities? Why do we not stop pretending like we do not all have insecurities?
One thing I learned in this yearly journey is we do not need even a fifth of what we think we need. We complicate our lives extensively. You need a lot less. So little.
There is something to the brick walls that make up houses around Cambridge and downtown Boston that make them awfully appealing to me. They soothe me.
I have been walking non-stop lately. I have been walking for about 11 months now. I have no idea when this will stop. I feel it coming to an end, but somehow it is not quite done. There is so much I need to shed.
For as much as we have relocated to Boston, apparently, I cannot get myself to feeling entirely here. Have I hoarded beyond the physicality of me? Could I be facing a blind difficulty to let go of what has been this far? How much of my questioning is senseless?
We have automated thought. Mental activity has been esteemed so high it has overreacted. Anyone would say restless thinking is bound to conclude somewhere enlightening.
Philosophy.
What happens when you focus on breathing? Shut your eyes and breathe. Will you?
I no longer know what side of the road is the right one for me to drive. I have forgotten what side of the street to look at first in order to cross. Costa Rica was not what I had comprehended. 35 years later, how do you work that into your day-to-day living?
Children in Kenya are starving. They smile, but they are starving. Some cry and plead.
They are starving.
How can I be the same after seeing that?
I stop. Cry. Keep breathing further.
There is a knot in my throat to which I cannot quite be oblivious.
Beckett is staring at me. He does so incessantly. I do not mean this as metaphor. There is literally a Beckett book staring at me in font size who-knows-what-is-the-equivalent-to-11-inches. I had to look up the inches. My head thinks in the metric system. That makes me look stupid every time someone talks to me in inches and I have no idea how much that is.
What good would it be if I focused on writing and showed the world the way I think and feel when I think about Beckett's theater? Or about the color of my skin in regards to how I am allowed to feel?
I will stand up for the immigrants in my art-making. There are vows I make to myself as I blow air out of my saxophone hoping it will connect me to a larger source in this Universe. Where does that get me? Under the spiritual section at the library, you could find me looking at astrology or mindfulness. A hippie, some call me. Not enough, I know. I will never be anything enough for me or others. Is that down-playing my abilities? Why do we not stop pretending like we do not all have insecurities?
One thing I learned in this yearly journey is we do not need even a fifth of what we think we need. We complicate our lives extensively. You need a lot less. So little.
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