What’s the truest part of me now? The most authentic?
Loneliness screams. I wait with bated breath for a wonderfully titled book that’ll arrive tomorrow. I think about how so much of the writing I see these days is peppered with references to technology, as it rightly must be. A million scattered thoughts – adding up to little. Where’s the focus? Should there be focus? Or is it my choice? I think it is the latter.
I hear a dear friend – one of the most sensitive and articulate people I know – say that her world is small, filled with a few friends and many books – and then I think I am okay. It’s not very commendable – this need for external validation.
Do I really live to experience my own mind? To see it take flight?
New friends and old drift in and out of my life – their egos barely visible, but floating just below the boiling surface.
I can not write coherently about anything for too long. It is a handicap I must deal with, or counter with a form all my own.
Cleave to the things, the people, the places, that make you come alive. Experience the new, but only newness that matters to you – people, ideas, never places for me.
I’m no cat; a dog any day. Light any day.