Oh dear god...

I only title this like that because I'm looking for a flare of dramatics over nothing, because isn't it all that? There's nothing wrong, but still, "Oh... dear god" here we go again, she's going to write about nothing as if it were...what?

Beautiful Pieces

I finished a book yesterday, The Storied Life of A.J.Filkry, and it wasn't what I expected. It was shit really. Too simple. But it was really well thought out and well written shit, and only shit because I think the author's ideas are a little before her time still. Tbh, by her picture on the cover I thought she was about 22, I just looked her up and she's 7 years younger than me. Ha ha. 

Still, it was simple. Too simple. 

I don't want that to happen to me. I don't want to think I'm communicating something really super deep in a way that sneaks up on the reader only to find that I was actually too inexperienced of a writer (too inexperienced as a person) to do this, and I laid.it.all.out for them as if I was teaching a kindergarten class. 

That would suck. 

I go inside my swirling guts and ask myself some hard questions like, what are you doing?

I hear, one step at a time, man; to which, fair enough. I guess. 

I see these pieces, the beautiful pieces of the-reality-of-being-human floating about. I smile and then I frown and then I smile. I can't decide if I love the simplicity of blundering or if I hate it. Which, in and of itself is interesting.

I am that guy standing at the street light, on foggy, misty night,  waiting for my mysterious self to deliver a message. While I wait, I just sit back and watch the world.

In the distance, a fog horn sounds unexpectedly and I jump. It takes away from my attempt at a cool demeanour.

Nevertheless, one must expel these spiders of thought, these niggling creatures that crawl in my brain as if they belong there. They are like fruit flies in that they don't have to come from somewhere else, the can just grow where once there was none. 

Also like fruit flies, I can coax them into drowning by laying out the sweet smell apple cider vinegar, the invitation to hedonism, and spill them from my finger tips to their death.

The spiders, the dude me at the street light, the judgy-reader, the wannabe writer, they are all beautiful pieces and when I'm right (as in righted) I can accept them with grace (like a mother lovingly watching her bratty kids fight). 

When I'm uncomfortable, it is because I've become one of them, slipped into their skin when I wasn't looking, in an attempt to feel... what? Young again?

I don't know. And now that I've written it all out, I don't care.