but few words
I want to tell you, now.
To make up for never telling you then.
The way I repent now.
For the kind of person I used to be.
And go through days looking for a way to make my spirit whole. But I’m coming around to the idea that there’s no one waiting at the gate. It’s just me again.
And I keep trying to chip away at the most substantial things. I think of ways to get rid of things, and friends.
The only reason I don’t sever ties with my family, because I’m weak or I love them.
Everyone else seems to boil away into vapor.
It’s funny what you can accomplish without trying, or caring.
But who am I anyway? I can feel it in my hand sometimes, the muscles going slack, like just before darkness and sleep.
I could probably lose my cell phone. Get a simple phone plan that only accepts calls. Live on rice and water. Fast four days out of the week. Read more books.
Try to think in verse.
I could probably lose the people I talk to, who talk back out of convenience, but don’t really care.
Hell, I don’t really care either.
It just feels like something is being let go.
I think about how I don’t talk to anyone at work, besides my manager, and maybe one or two other people that require talking to.
The Dao says “To use but few words is natural.”
After food, water, clothing, and shelter, what do you need? A bit of conversation? Some basic distractions, meaningless banter?
It seems like the harder a conversation is to come by, the more precious it is held.
Over years, and growing more golden with age, becoming a cherished thing you only once knew.
Wherever they go, wherever they’ve been, and whatever might have come to pass, I wish them the very best.
Under your skin there’s an animal that wants out. Something basic and mean. But something pure and honest, too. Held in check by shreds of morality and scraps of ethics. All the shit they put in your head to program you.
Split me right down the middle, divide me up into the good and the bad.
Feel like you’re drowning in the everyday barrage, the sharp buzzing distraction of emails, text messages, chit chat, and bitter memories. Try to block it out with music and art and hear or see nothing. But people still prying their way back through the shutters.
“People were doing it for ages before cell phones,” someone says. “If you get lost, you’ll probably figure it out.”
Makes you wonder how much you could get rid of.
Late at night, eyes closed and waiting for sleep to come creeping in, I think of living alone in the wilderness. Far from any town.
A gun to hunt.
Pen and paper to write.
Not much else.
A bank account to see me dead. Whatever comes after, let someone else bear witness.