I don’t really feel like writing today so I am forcing myself to.
Too hungry to write. Hungry for love. Wait, listen for his footsteps on the stairs. Will he be happy to see you? Will your emotional states be in sync, will he want the same things that you do. The sun sets again on a backdrop of ugly buildings, and cropped trees, but you can still see the beauty in it, straining to be free. You put your hand on the golden square that the sun casts through your window and projects onto the wall, and feel a part of something better than where you are. All day people are yelling, it is as if poverty requires constant screaming to verify its condition. Where are the quiet poor, or are there any? There is a reason for all of this, it seems.
You want something else, something more than what you have been subsisting off of. You want something different, but you’re not sure…you don’t think you can handle that right now. Maybe in a little bit, maybe when you are a little better.
You’re all dolled up, you hope he won’t take it the wrong way. You’re tired of being a subject (or an object) in a man’s world. You want to take control, you want to blame every man you meet for the way things are, the way things seem to be. You’re on strike against dishes, you will let them pile up. You did enough of them in your past lives.
You have nothing to say, why should you force it? Or maybe you have too much to say and don’t know how. You’re tired of sitting still. You want to go out and do things, but your time will come, right?
Or maybe it has already passed, and that is what makes you bitter, what makes you angry, what makes you want to shake your fist at the city until the skyscrapers shatter, until the blood runs as thick as the untouchable river of sewage under the bridges that will burn– kindling for your dreams.