There are many things I’d like to write about, but find that for whatever reason the words are coming out wrong. Backwards. Too thin.
And so, since I cannot write about these things, I’d like to write about the things I’d like to write about:
I wanted to post about the pain in my neck and how its been dripping into my shoulders. I wonder if my body is turning into my mother’s, but only 30 years sooner.
I wanted to write about bugs and the kiss of an ant’s pincher.
I had this epiphany about how I’d been searching above the city and underwater for silence, only to have accidentally stumbled upon to realize – I was looking for quiet of the mind, and upon finding it I wanted to do absolutely nothing except let it seep into me, and stain into a memory of what true calm can be like.
I thought about writing about wearing a bikini… in Nepal… and how a frog swam by grazing my belly. I don’t think I’d ever really paid attention to how graceful they are underwater – I almost wanted to be one. Also, holy poopsiciles, the baby ones ARE SO FREAKING CUTE!!!!! I should post pictures. Swimming with frogs. 🙂
I started a poem about writing letters and singing songs and how I want to suck the marrow of words in almost pathetic desperation… for what? I don’t know. I’m not sure I’d like to find out.
I have ideas and excitement regarding how strangers turn into friends. (And I guess therefore also about how sometimes, friends turn into strangers.) But mostly about what you’re willing to revel and the joy of exposing together.
I want to write about apologies.
I wish I could post about the meaning of life and how I’m beginning to rediscover God in everything.
I could write a thousand words on how much I love plain drinking water.
I’d like to write an honest post on why I chopped off all of my hair, and how I remember my black tresses in the waste bin, a nest of dead cells that I had once cared for.
I wish I could write and take the vanity, the self absorption, the disgusting selfishness, the “I”, out of everything.