She had eyes bright enough to burn me, they reminded me of yours.
So I am finally back in the city that never sleeps for longer than a few days and so far it lacks how much fun I had this summer. But fear not, I have awhile for this trip to become memorable.
But I have huge problem of my life right now, the knowledge versus the action. The refusal to stop questioning, to wonder who I am, to ponder the place I hold, to think, to think, to THINK.
And now I reason and rationalize, I affirm and deny, I build theories and tear down ancient notions. I just can't stop all of this God damn thinking. Every little colloquial mannerism is the foundation of a new philosophy. "Good luck!" "Luck is the assignment of superstition to coincidence." "Bless you!" "I never asked to be blessed. I bless myself." Nothing is safe from scrutiny.
Not all is under attack, though. This incessant plague of overthought, of hyperthought, is devoted to questions and answers in part of the time. Everything goes through my eyes and ears and I have to put it into new words. They're sometimes flowery and rhythmic, sometimes blunt almost to coarseness. I rephrase the wordless. I see poetry everywhere.
At the end of the day, I have all of these thoughts. I compound a catalogue of contradictions and outline my overwrought observations. I rejoice in my ability to create while I destroy.
But the tangible effects are weak. This litany of terms -- will, power, act, affect, move, live -- they are woefully underrepresented. I don't run, and scream, and love sincerely. I thought I had found cause to live the poetry I see, but the weakness of my will held me back, and it's too late -- for that.
It's not too late for me, though. I still have hope. I'm certain that, one day, I'll live as passionately as I think. Sooner or later, I'll sound my barbaric yawp from the depths of my diaphragm instead of the crest of my cranium.
For now, all I have are words. They will be enough.
But I have huge problem of my life right now, the knowledge versus the action. The refusal to stop questioning, to wonder who I am, to ponder the place I hold, to think, to think, to THINK.
And now I reason and rationalize, I affirm and deny, I build theories and tear down ancient notions. I just can't stop all of this God damn thinking. Every little colloquial mannerism is the foundation of a new philosophy. "Good luck!" "Luck is the assignment of superstition to coincidence." "Bless you!" "I never asked to be blessed. I bless myself." Nothing is safe from scrutiny.
Not all is under attack, though. This incessant plague of overthought, of hyperthought, is devoted to questions and answers in part of the time. Everything goes through my eyes and ears and I have to put it into new words. They're sometimes flowery and rhythmic, sometimes blunt almost to coarseness. I rephrase the wordless. I see poetry everywhere.
At the end of the day, I have all of these thoughts. I compound a catalogue of contradictions and outline my overwrought observations. I rejoice in my ability to create while I destroy.
But the tangible effects are weak. This litany of terms -- will, power, act, affect, move, live -- they are woefully underrepresented. I don't run, and scream, and love sincerely. I thought I had found cause to live the poetry I see, but the weakness of my will held me back, and it's too late -- for that.
It's not too late for me, though. I still have hope. I'm certain that, one day, I'll live as passionately as I think. Sooner or later, I'll sound my barbaric yawp from the depths of my diaphragm instead of the crest of my cranium.
For now, all I have are words. They will be enough.