I can hold my breath for over two minutes. I’m not bragging, I promise. It’s just that I love water. I love it a lot. I love drinking it. Swimming in it. Staring at it. Feeling it. Water is amazing, in my opinion. It’s one of the most beautiful things about this world. Sometimes, I want to be water. I want to be water moving. It may sound silly, but to me it makes sense. It makes sense to be a part of something that is everywhere. That can go anywhere. It is free and natural. Water is life perfected.
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Truth. Being true. An attribute of life that I love. But honesty is rare. When I see an honest piece of work (art, writing, film, etc.), I am captivated. Even if the truth is small and fragile, I will adore the work. I cannot help but respect the entirety of a something when it shows me a sliver of honesty. My admiration for these truth-tellers stems from my own inability to speak it. Honesty cuts you open. Exposes you. Leaves you vulnerable. Forces you to face all the fears. That’s why it is rare. That’s why it is beautiful.
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Sometimes we hit these holes. Sometimes we get out of’em quickly. Sometimes we take it slow. Sometimes we need a helping hand. I’m in a hole. I’m not moving quickly out. I’m not moving slowly, either. And, I never look for another’s hand. Instead, I’m peeping out of the hole. Getting a different perspective on the world. Trying to see why everyone wants to be hole-less. I like my hole. It’s mine. Not yours. I can stay in it. You can’t get me. You can’t reach me. Maybe, you never will again. This time, I’m staying here. Being whole.
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I block the cold with the music. Loud, consuming, burning, surrounding music. I am warmed. But the heat cannont last. I will deafen. The tolerance to the fix. Again, I must seek. Await another cure. Another solution. Another warmth. I search. Unaware of the absent of promise. There must be another. There is always another. There is never an absolute. Never. The cold will torture while I wait. But it will not kill. It cannot. I would let it. Anything to stop the seach and the cold. I welcome the Frost. But, still, I am forced to scavenge and hope.
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Thinking about the new semester. Intimidated by the loud students. I am not them. They are not me. I’m supposed to be them, right? Be like everyone else? Even, the “weird” ones. I have to be like them too, right? That is what you want, right? That is what you say. That is what you think. Pushing me into that box. That place I can’t breathe. The space that should not exist but does. You want me in there. You want to contain me. In that simple box, you’re happy to have me. Keep me. Tame me. You feel better?
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Homelessness sucks. Its gotta suck, right? Who would want to be homeless? That’s crazy. Everyone wants a home. A place to live. There are homeless people all over the world. It’s terrible that there are so many. Just horrible. It makes me cringe. I don’t like seeing it. It makes me feel awkward. It makes me feel like I’m better. Like I’m higher. I hate the way homelessness makes me feel. It also makes me too sad. Way too miserable. I have to block it out. They make life depressing. I hate that you are homeless. I want you inside.
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Crucify me. I know that’s what is usual to do. I don’t want to be in this place and sit around with you. That closed mind makes me pull over and expell my insides. I keep looking but it’s really you that can’t find the path. What you’ve done to me and the ones to come is a crime to all. I scream, but you never here that chime. You can’t see the ignorance. They forced you into that same trance that you now try to push on me. Well, I’m smarter than you. And, you can’t have your way.
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Caffeine and DiFranco create an ambience of sobriety in me. It’s just an illusion, but I don’t mind. Whatever gets me through the day, I’ll take. I push off the hangover that wants in. I tell the headache to go away. I tried watering it all down when the night was done, but I passed out instead. You would think I should learn a lesson. But, I never did or will. I want the drink more than life. I want my head spinning rather the the world revolving. You created my dissatisfaction. So, now you can deal with my inebriation.
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It does not feel good to be so unwanted. Duh. No one wants to be unwanted. But, for me, I feel it is my own fault. I am not really a nice person. I do things for myself. Even if I act nice, it’s only for my own benefit. Being nice gets you places. People like you. It gets you in. It makes things happen. So, again, I be nice for myself. To get somewhere. To get someone. To be someone. To have a li’l company. To not be so alone. But, really, I am just unwanted. Wanna be friends?