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.