Living between the gaps
It seems to me that the more I cram into my life, the sweeter the moments between those events become. The free time, borrowed from work or friends or classes, the one that's not mine but I make mine, sweet like the red evenings of summer sunsets that taste of childhood.
I tell my stories between gaps. I write them when I shouldn't be writing, and when I have time I could devote to writing I steal it for something else. In between work, in between studying, in between meals, I write all the stories, the ones I share and the secret ones that will never be put on paper -digital or otherwise.
The stories happen between gaps. Between a great event and another, I find that second/minute/hour/day that I want to steal, I borrow a look or a fleeting touch, I borrow a night or a summer breeze, I borrow the cold and a snowflake, I steal a star or the roar of the sea. It's when I plan that the story goes away from me, resisting wildly to follow the path I decided on, wanting to be free, wanting to roam and make new tracks. The story then steals my time, and sometimes is never finished.
My story is just like this. I plan my life and it bucks and throws me around, wanting to take the weedy tracks, forget the road, stealing breath from me. Goodbye calm, goodbye resolve, it's all chaos and thieves playing in the night, thoughts of a life that can never be, unless I steal it from myself.
I balance between optimism and despair, running myself tired until I don't know why I bother anymore. I don't fit anywhere, I don't want the great plains or the vast horizons. I scurry between the cracks, run wild in the gaps.
I have no idea where I'm going with this life.
I tell my stories between gaps. I write them when I shouldn't be writing, and when I have time I could devote to writing I steal it for something else. In between work, in between studying, in between meals, I write all the stories, the ones I share and the secret ones that will never be put on paper -digital or otherwise.
The stories happen between gaps. Between a great event and another, I find that second/minute/hour/day that I want to steal, I borrow a look or a fleeting touch, I borrow a night or a summer breeze, I borrow the cold and a snowflake, I steal a star or the roar of the sea. It's when I plan that the story goes away from me, resisting wildly to follow the path I decided on, wanting to be free, wanting to roam and make new tracks. The story then steals my time, and sometimes is never finished.
My story is just like this. I plan my life and it bucks and throws me around, wanting to take the weedy tracks, forget the road, stealing breath from me. Goodbye calm, goodbye resolve, it's all chaos and thieves playing in the night, thoughts of a life that can never be, unless I steal it from myself.
I balance between optimism and despair, running myself tired until I don't know why I bother anymore. I don't fit anywhere, I don't want the great plains or the vast horizons. I scurry between the cracks, run wild in the gaps.
I have no idea where I'm going with this life.