Your throat scratches, the words slow.
A thousand doubts surround you and hold you down.
do you see the immaturities?
Do you see the heartbreak so close at hand?
Do you see the innocence, so easily belied by a pink jacket and some green pants? The candle that only burns when you want it to, that only brings happiness when you choose it?
Are your words worth anything if they're only nonsense? Does it still count as 500 if you just ramble and say nothing?
If it's just your doubts on a page, your hands typing as fast as they can - maybe you'll knock it out faster than 20 minutes this time.
You need to write, but you chose to sing, to play until your fingers chafe. To seek out a chance to be someone you aren't - to learn how to do something you've always been unable to do.
To play without rhythm, without reason, with nothing but madness - it's your heart's closest thing to knowing what it means to live, to be alive, to have a purpose when there seems to be nothing worth believing in.
Who am I? Who am I? to be loved by you - Need2Breathe asks... I think it's them who ask. It might not be. But aren't they right? Aren't they true? Isn't it true, this ultimate infestimal question of our universe?
Who am I? Who am I? Nothing to the cosmos.
And I'm still coming to terms with that, to be completely honest.
Coming to terms with the fact that my utterly hopeless rambles might be a piece of the puzzle I'm missing, that maybe Nathan will never make it out of the desert in my words, though he's made it out over and over in my mind - though the grass has bloomed, and he found the city on the edge of the world...
Despite all of these things, I still question daily whether this is a dream worth pursuing or if I need to learn how to live a bit more than I'm doing now.
Look at this extrapolation of my mind's inner workings. Isn't it lovely to look upon? Do you feel accomplished reading it? Or simply mad? Can you see my desperation? My boredom? My filling space? My promise to write 500 words rendered useless by virtue of loopholes along the way?
tell me now what I should do with my nonsense? Where should I take it to? Should I rejoice that this only took me six minutes to finish? A new record, maybe. A new form of free-write, unending existence.
Only seventy more words to go here, we're almost there, and not one deep thought among them all. It's a good thing I've got a tag for nonsense, because this is just a ramble, just a fulfillment of my desire to one day write something that means something... One couldn't even call this poetry, maybe that's the sad part.
Is it odd that I am so aware of my own deterioration? Odd that I sit on the porch and watch it walking by, knowing if I stood up and chased it, I might be able to catch up again? No, I'll sit here and shell peas and watch the sunrise instead, dreaming of the "could-have-beens" more than the "here-and-nows."
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