Something is always missing, of course. But it shouldn’t be, it really, really shouldn’t be.
But I guess this is how it happens, this is the call of “reality.” I’m so obsessed, with this concept of reality, with these big words and ideas that don’t mean anything. Not really.
The thing is I’m always aspiring to this unattainable something and without knowing quite what it is except, it’s that moment, a flash a glance a chorus a line from a song the wind and the rain and shoes that make just the right sound and the layers and fit of a dress, a conversation that plays over and over on repeat in this broken tape deck that is my head.
And there’s something wrong even when nothing’s wrong. Because I’m obsessed and vain and selfish and lazy and that used to be one of my favorite quotes: all writers are, at their core, vain, selfish & lazy. It’s true. I can feel it in the weight of my eyelids now, a body that wants nothing more than to lie still and go through the same motions of today, tomorrow, subtle variations that don’t play to the right soundtrack and words spelled out in the air in invisible light paintings, big tipped paintbrushes soaked and bleeding into the air letters that no one will ever read.
Because it’s a front. It’s all, all a front. Always. And you probably have no idea. I’m so good at putting up fronts.
But it’s only a front if I let it be. Sometimes it’s true and I believe with every little piece of myself that this is right and this is it and there’s not the slightest doubt, or fear or regret or anything except that exhilaration in knowing, just knowing that it’s right.
Right now I don’t know. Those are powerful words, those three, I don’t know, loaded despite their simplicity, overused and ripped of their power. But not at all, for even typing them, even reading them strips away a layer of self control, will power and destiny ripped away in a repetition of a trite easy way out. I don’t know.
My god, no more of this. No more of this uncertain cry for something more, just fucking do something. Like that moment earlier this afternoon, watching the sudden downpour from the safety of a shoe store, and then deciding to fuck it, walk outside and in the time of those two seconds becoming horribly drenched, wet everywhere and laughing laughing as I duck into the McDonalds one door over, catching the eye of an Asian woman, disapproval evident in her empty expression but inside I’m delighted, still, for misunderstanding nature, for misunderstanding the rain but it’s just not practical then to run outside and dance in the downpour, without an umbrella but with my purse heavy with my cameras and books and technology and empty words.
No more of this grabbing at empty lines and sentiments and sentimentality. Needing “inspiration.” This isn’t about inspiration, this isn’t about waiting for the right moment or the right time but jumping into the rain wet and cold and unexpected fast in rivers on bare skin and soaking through cotton. This is impulsive and elation and freedom and the thrill and life delicious on my tongue like unexpected orange bites in dark chocolate, like green tea scented soap or silk covers against skin flushed from a shower, against unrealistic expectations and desires that clench at thin air, that should be transformed into nothing more than life and life itself.