Wandering thoughts

Ante up

I’ve been reminding myself to play my cards how I see fit. However it will excite me. But to refuse feeling defeated if the other side has a better hand. Dive head first into things that excite you regardless of the unknown result. When excitement fades- fold. Jump into the next thing that moves you.

I have a plan B, of course. Detailed? Far from it. Back up plan is as follows- find something else that excites me if my current opportunity fails. And just keep fucking moving. So long as there’s motion. So long as there’s excitement.

Never let your feet rest for too long.

They’ve reserved a large table for reason; I’ll take a table for one, please

Why do they always ask “What inspired this?”
As if they need a reason to feel the way they’re feeling. They need to be spoon fed some sort of elaborate meaning. Incapable of simply experiencing. They always need justification. Maybe it did have meaning. Or maybe I simply wanted to put paintbrush to canvas. Regardless, enjoy it or hate it. Stare harder or look away.

But stop searching for a reason and just fucking experience things.

Painted doors- keyholes of possibilities

Sleep never comes easily. I find myself pulling closer and closer to the keyboard as of lately, with every confusion as to why. Things are good. My days have been filled with adventure and good conversation.

Yet I always feel that I’m waiting for something. Always waiting. Never quite sure what it is that I’m waiting for. “Grab hold!” life screams at me. I attempt to quiet its frustration and tell it to be patient. “Hold the fuck on,” I whisper. Something is coming. You know the fucking problem with that? Life doesn’t hold the door open for anyone. No gentleman, that fucking thing called life. And I fear I’m letting doors close, locking away all possibilities behind small and unforgiving keyholes.

There are doors in front of me coated with various shades of taunting paint. Unknown, but inviting. I plan to walk through one of those doors before they slam shut with laughter. My chucks are laced up and ready to put some dirt beneath them. “Now,” I say more assured, “now I am ready.”

Single file into the horizon

I truly have no idea why I’m even typing. But I sit here and my fingers itch. They want to say something. The only problem is that my thoughts run wild and refuse to form a line that allows my fingers to follow one after the other. Those stubborn bastards are playing Marco Polo and always cheat. Fish out of water I say! Well fuck, they simply chuckled and continued running around the pool while pointing chubby little fingers at me. My thoughts laugh at my own inability to catch them.

One of these days, I’m going to jump out of the pool, punch those sneaky fuckers in the throat and force them to submit. And they will walk a straight line of words into the horizon.

The door is open. Take a ride in my passenger seat, won’t you? You look a little unsure. Well, I am a woman; to make matters a little more terrifying, my car is manual. Lastly, I am not known for my ability to multitask. Every commuter can now nod in simultaneous agreement because we are all guilty of attempting to perform unnecessary tasks while our eyes and hands wander from their safe places. Actually, i am not known for my ability to accomplish any task which involves coordination. So your reluctancy is understood.

Instead, allow me to paint a picture for you. Everyone loves pictures.

She was the backseat passenger, crammed into a tiny white ford that looked as if it were unable to seat even one person comfortably.

She gazed off. Two men sat in the front gabbing about what I can only imagine to be nauseatingly lifeless topics of little importance. But not her. She wasn’t really there. In her mind, she wasn’t a lonely passenger whose thoughts were not asked for. Not cared about. Her mind was elsewhere. Somewhere away from the heat. The mindless chatter. The feeling of not belonging. Maybe close to the water. But maybe I only assume so because that is where my own mind wanders a majority of the time.

Her posture echoed a sadness and a freedom all in the same; an anguishing familiarity that made me squirm uncomfortably in my seat

After a few moments longer, I sped around and didn’t look back. Too much of that isn’t good for a person, you know?

Clockwork

Those who have their lives figured out- I never know whether to ask how it can be done, or to shake you by the throat while telling you to lose yourself. Truly lose yourself. To wander. To let everything slip through your fingers.

I’ve got little figured out. And always, always confusion. So rarely do I feel that the place I’m in holds me as a part of it. It feels more so as if I hold the place I’m in and watch as a detached bystander.

But I wonder. I wonder whether you appreciate the moments of belonging. I wonder if you ever grow tired of your constant clarity. Stagnant. Never changing.

Is there a point when it’s okay to say “I crave something more”? A point when you think that maybe, just maybe, your clockwork is due for a tune up. A few more gears to make you tick just a little differently. Possibly, just possibly, a little more fulfilling.

Breathe

When you no longer try to control the outcome of the situation. When you simply allow things be exactly as they are. Nothing more; nothing less. When you accept it without overanalyzing and questioning every slight turn from the path you had planned. When the flawless concrete walkway of your meticulously outlined journey strays in another direction that your blueprint did not anticipate and prepare for. A little cracked, a little worn, immeasurably petrifying. That is when the world quiets itself just enough so that you are able to see. To see yourself for who you are, rather than who you were arranging yourself to be. And that is when value is revealed in the midst of seemingly irrelevant and meaningless chaos. When you stop watching the long hand of the clock mockingly tick off the minutes of your pathetically formulated life, and live. Just live. Nothing more; nothing less.