I think I got a little dissillusioned or however you spell that, can you have that feeling if you can't spell it? I almost quit my blog because I was feeling sort of frustrated with everything in life, but alas the universe does conspire for you, not against you, if you really try and have a purpose.
So here I am 6 am on Sunday with the purpose of coming back to my blog. A friend of mine last night told me that I made a commitment and I have to stick to my vow.
I made a vow to spend 365 days involved in some kind of journey and I really want to stick to that. I think part of the journey is wanting so badly to quit. To cry. To maybe even die.
Don’t get me wrong I do not ACTUALLY want to die, but I had this illusion that as soon as I had discovered my destination, getting there would be a snap. However, I can’t twitch my nose like that chick on Bewitched and make things happen.
But sometimes when I’m typing, I feel like some people do on a piano, there is a rhythm that I’m following, a sound in my head. I can’t play the piano, but give me a few words to work with, and I can play. Sometimes I live with the illusion that that’s all I have.
But as much as I love writing, I love living more, so I find that words are like my little boats sometimes that carry me through life. But it is life after all that I’m after. Sometimes I have the illusion that life can be put into words, when it is far more complex than that.
In these early summer mornings I drink iced coffee and wonder why I don’t smoke because I so desperately want something in my mouth. I stick the ice in my mouth and chew on it as if my life depends on finding something to eat. I think it’s funny that I eat water first thing in the morning.
When all I want is this summer to not end two days, I’ve been wearing flip flops and no one knows how much I hate shoes, in the sense that they represent this lack of freedom for my feet. I mean I love shoes just as much as the next girl, but being able to have your feet breathe all summer is a luxury. And no worries, I have flip flops in every color and style available.
It can be lonely, sometimes in the early hours of the morning when the only people who are awake are those that are paid to be awake. But I find if I don’t just get up when I first wake up in the morning, I want to never wake up. Not never but not until much of the morning has passed me by.
There is something about being alive when everyone is still sleeping, I feel like I can get something out of system when no one is around watching me, as if I can stand on my head, metaphorically, and every time I fall before I am able to do it is washed away in the dark stillness of the morning. No one knows.
No one knows, except that guy who sells me my coffee, how much I crave that conversation when I ask him for my coffee and he asks me for some money. How much I need to be a part of some kind of exchange in life that is so mundane but makes my morning ritual real. If he wasn’t there watching, would I be awake? If I really did try to stand on my head and fell when no one is watching because even the coffee guy is on break, have a really fallen or even existed in these strange mornings?
I sit next t a painting that is so beautiful, with colors swirling all around, yet I feel like I could have painted it myself when I was like five. These particular colors are so special that this painting is worth four hundred dollars. Sometimes I want to rip it apart and see if they would charge me the 400 dollars.
I want to create beauty, not for the money, ‘cause we all know how much money there is in beauty. But I want to see beauty in that man and woman smoking outside the window at a quarter to seven. Killing themselves softly, as I ingest caffeine in a tiny Styrofoam cup that will eventually kill my planet.
Sometimes, in the early morning I want to do things like scream or maybe sing, in front of the three people that are with me in this café. On the one hand I enjoy our distance, but there’s a part of me that wants to stand up and sing with them, as if we were at some secular church where people just sang for the hell of it on Sunday Mornings instead of having a divine purpose.
This is our divine purpose, isn’t it? To be like robots and never scream out of place. To never dance unless you are in a ‘designated dancing place.’ I want to get up and dance right now, though I’m no Michael Jackson, I can’t do the moon walk but I can look at the moon fading and wish I was up there this morning.
Maybe the moon is an illusion too. And maybe Mars wouldn’t be any better than Michigan. But the dream is so pretty, as beautiful as this painting I stare at every morning. So forgive me my illusions and I’ll forgive you yours.