(no subject)
I was too tired in every way and I want to write, so I ate some bitter altoids, then I sucked on the real altoids, I swept the deck, and then I started reading the book Vicki left for me, and then I checked my email, and then I smoked a cigarette, and then I went through old letters, and then I emailed some people back, and then I took a nap, and then I smoked a cigarette, and then I read old journals until I laughed and then teared up, and then I read a little, weighed myself, smoked, kissed the pig, organized the closet, dropped Biology, wrote on my hand to make a counseling appt since I really have no clue what I need still, looked up Hepatitis C for the hell of it, am currently trying to find some elderly care home guidelines and requirements that I don't have to PAY to pull up a PDF, and think I'm ready to write.
I just haven't wanted to clear the phone line.
Too many people to talk to.
And not enough.
I found I poem I wrote once when I was on drugs. And when I say on drugs, I mean on illegal Prozac, not off somewhere floating in a smelly cloud or seeing pink unicorns sitting in the trees. I wrote it and rewrote it 12 times.
It was about a caterpillar who liked being able to look at the sky, and how he dreaded becoming a butterfly even though everyone told him he was supposed to fly fly fly, and harrassed him for enjoying being the lowly being he was.
So he became a butterfly and stayed on the ground until he let everyone else pressure him into flying because thats what he was SUPPOSED to do. They couldn't understand HOW he could be content staying on the ground and yelled at him and called him selfish, unmotivated, unwilling to grow, dumb and simple for not needing what everyone else needed.
The poem hinted at how the people pushing him into the sky only did so because his humility and comfort with having so little and appreciating something as simple as the view of the sky made them feel guilty for needing so desperately to fly above everyone else....and for their own inability to appreciate the very same sky even while taking it over.
He flies like a butterfly should, but being in the sky, misses the view of it, panics at the vastness of it, dodges sparrows and other flying creatures who nearly send him plummeting out of it....
...and dives head first into a windshield.
All because no one would appreciate the catepillar being content to stay a catepillar, and forced him to fly for the sake of pleasing THEM.
"Your wings were my burden." I narrated for him.
And everyone said, "what a waste, such potential, how tragic." and managed to convince themselves that they had nothing to do with it.
It was perfect.
People wish you'd spread your wings and fly - and don't take into account that you're ok where and what you are.
The sad thing - we all know that when you hear something enough, something you don't conform to....you start doubting yourself and your own motivations, and you take so much away from your unique potential, if only to prove to THEM that you're living up to that very potential - while you may succeed in their eyes, you'll always be a failure in your own.
Sometimes I feel the need to "spread my wings and fly" right to panty hose and cubicles and salary and an ergonomic chair. But I know that when I get there, I'll look around and wonder who the hell "THEY" ever were and how much time I wasted on "THEM" - and a windshield will be most inviting.
Maybe I stay on the ground because its safe.
Maybe I'm just unable to give up the ocean in the clouds, which looks different from too high up.
Maybe its time to go write another poem.
Geez.
I just haven't wanted to clear the phone line.
Too many people to talk to.
And not enough.
I found I poem I wrote once when I was on drugs. And when I say on drugs, I mean on illegal Prozac, not off somewhere floating in a smelly cloud or seeing pink unicorns sitting in the trees. I wrote it and rewrote it 12 times.
It was about a caterpillar who liked being able to look at the sky, and how he dreaded becoming a butterfly even though everyone told him he was supposed to fly fly fly, and harrassed him for enjoying being the lowly being he was.
So he became a butterfly and stayed on the ground until he let everyone else pressure him into flying because thats what he was SUPPOSED to do. They couldn't understand HOW he could be content staying on the ground and yelled at him and called him selfish, unmotivated, unwilling to grow, dumb and simple for not needing what everyone else needed.
The poem hinted at how the people pushing him into the sky only did so because his humility and comfort with having so little and appreciating something as simple as the view of the sky made them feel guilty for needing so desperately to fly above everyone else....and for their own inability to appreciate the very same sky even while taking it over.
He flies like a butterfly should, but being in the sky, misses the view of it, panics at the vastness of it, dodges sparrows and other flying creatures who nearly send him plummeting out of it....
...and dives head first into a windshield.
All because no one would appreciate the catepillar being content to stay a catepillar, and forced him to fly for the sake of pleasing THEM.
"Your wings were my burden." I narrated for him.
And everyone said, "what a waste, such potential, how tragic." and managed to convince themselves that they had nothing to do with it.
It was perfect.
People wish you'd spread your wings and fly - and don't take into account that you're ok where and what you are.
The sad thing - we all know that when you hear something enough, something you don't conform to....you start doubting yourself and your own motivations, and you take so much away from your unique potential, if only to prove to THEM that you're living up to that very potential - while you may succeed in their eyes, you'll always be a failure in your own.
Sometimes I feel the need to "spread my wings and fly" right to panty hose and cubicles and salary and an ergonomic chair. But I know that when I get there, I'll look around and wonder who the hell "THEY" ever were and how much time I wasted on "THEM" - and a windshield will be most inviting.
Maybe I stay on the ground because its safe.
Maybe I'm just unable to give up the ocean in the clouds, which looks different from too high up.
Maybe its time to go write another poem.
Geez.