how I want to blog
wonder if I have something in me, not to say, but, worth listening to.
…whether the 300 words in the novel are 300 more words than I had before, or merely 300 words that live and breathe and exist now, on their own, not as a part of anything, but as tumbleweed. Driftwood.
…time and how it’s spent. So many hours at a desk, waiting for something real to happen.
…and all that is real, those so many hours at a desk are. real. A baby’s heartbeat inside me, inside him, or ‘it’ because how could it really be, ya know, this way, as in true?
And should I have left this here, when it’s how things really read, like the journal of a teenager’s heart that should have already blossomed by now, and didn’t, because that’s not what anyone wants to hear — that my nails are blue and green and chipped and I still walk around like the 300 words of a sad poet wondering why everyone else is a part of something but me.