(no subject)

[piedpiper]

i'm not a writer anymore. i'm a tourist or a dabbler. there's no passion in words. i see them everywhere, linked together more eloquently than i ever could — me with my sloppy stitches. 

i mean, yes, of course there's passion in words. there's anger and envy. the deepest depths the sky-highs. but i'm not the same, and what i have to say never changes somehow. 

i've whittled down to basics, once my biggest fear. "you're totally ordinary and everyone knows it." it settles over me like those weighted blankets. i'm pacified by the heft of routine. the less i want, the less i want. but there's no sadness in that. it's like every strip of bark shaved to the floor, the more i take shape, the more i'm at my true form there's the unveiled understanding that it's all final. that endgames are meaningless. plans, steps, anything you could put your hand out and touch isn't real at all. it's all inside. we are all alone and we are all dying. and i'm so fine with that. 

i'm a baby. i'm almost 50. i work with dogs. i'm in love. i'm coddled and cared for. i put myself in at-risk situations and i wait to see which one will claim me. i do drugs and i fold further in on myself. i evolve and share these new lessons with no one. i lied--i'm still a writer. i beat words out every day in my head. sometimes i'll say something beautifully and i'll tuck it into my cheek, to savor and swallow and forget.