Life: Exams and Happiness

We never write when we are happy because we wouldn’t have anything to write about. And yet, we forever write. Even the sun, a simple flower, beauty, family, lovers, and friends: are all inextricably linked to a constant apprehension. They are topics not of pleasure, but of the journey there of.

I’ve been reading plenty of mine and others’ work; putting off reality until the final day, wanting to face it only once. But now I’m actually studying, alone in the library, reading authors I don’t respect, writing on topics I care little, and swallowing between each stanza. I feel underwater.

Nevertheless, I am inspired to write.

Life: I want to be a writer

I want to write like gypsies walk. I want to write with valor: with a kind of openness proper grammar would never understand. I want to use the words hope, love, and patriotism like they mean something. I want to bottle up freedom in a sentence and finish it off with a period. I want to write like wet lips during a first kiss. I want to write poetry inside prose inside of poetry. I want to foreshadow the end days in a comedy. I want to be Dickens and Locke and Williams and Frost all at once. I want to hold the world on the tip of a pen, give it a good spin, and find world peace. I want to write like ice-cream flavors. I want to find god at 4:00 am with nothing but a pen and old newspapers. I want to write like lasting marriages. I want to be a writer. I want to be your writer.

Life: I love children

Somewhere brightness is hitting just above the crest of a young boy’s head. Balls fly towards a pair of dirty shirts placed deliberately as goalposts. Some children use fragments of old rocking chairs or useless bed pans, or homespun quilts. Anything to separate goal from field is sufficient. The poor ones recycle bundled trash for a ball and dangerous alleyways for in-bounds. They are desperate children in hopeless conditions playing with frantic smiles. And I love them for it.