February 18, 2012 § Leave a comment

There is no poetry in me.  Believe it or not, I have to write a Creative Writing thesis.  Writing, speaking.  I have nothing to say.  There is no poetry in me.  Lately I have found a lot of calm in reading about hostile places – outer space or the bottom of the ocean.  Somewhere that would crush humans and their arrogance and their shit out of existence.  I am not good enough at mathematics to study space.  I am a poet in that respect, I see it as a gas, a gap between flesh and rock, a soup for our toys.  Not a bendy cosmic entity switching us around like newts in a pond.  Although I do feel like nothing.


Culture just seems too social for me.  In likelihood, I have run out of ideas because I hardly ever leave this room.  It’s just me and my tasteless food and my stuff dripping with memories of my stupid little life.  I have to remind myself that this is what I wanted, for really a very long time, and that I am lucky to be here at all.  This is kind of a culmination, so to speak.  So fucking lame.


I worry about the future, and what will happen after my parents die.  If we are together for too long, we argue, but they really love me in a way that has nothing to do with me.  This is what causes the arguments, but what also makes me feel like a have a home with them.  I think they are disappointed.  There is still something slightly gruesome about a single childless woman, either that or they think that perhaps I may have wanted something different and are sad for me.  I didn’t want anything different.  This is what I wanted.



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