rust never sleeps
I talk to myself. As far as I’m aware I only do this when sitting being creative at the drawing board or computer, I don’t think it’s something that happens when I’m writing. Not that I mind if I do, I don’t object to being thought mad - as long as I’m not mad. I flirted briefly with losing my mind once and it’s not a relationship I want to rekindle. Madness and I parted on bad terms and for good or ill I’m back with my first love - sanity.
What I do know I do when I’m writing is stick my tongue out and bite it. A girl in the office pointed this out to me a few weeks back. "my cousin does that - it’s cute. It’s cute on him - because he’s 3 years old." I don’t mind if I poke my tongue out like a 3-year-old when I’m thinking. If I cared about how cool I looked I’d buy better shoes and get a haircut.
What does bother me is how these things could be taken as a sign of immaturity when they are not, yet immature I am. I don’t measure my maturity by my success or failure in my job, the car I don’t own or the slum I live in. it’s not measured by the qualifications I didn’t get, the toys in my room or the comics on my bedside table.
What is immature is that when I feel, as I have this past week, vulnerable and emotional - over aware of the ache: of these rare - near extinct - days when I want to sink down and be tended. Cared for, loved, that I react to it with stoicism. I grit my teeth and carry on as if nothing has changed. I don’t look at what’s going on and try to help myself. I endure - and wait for it to pass. I wait for it to go away.
I treat this sign that I am human as if it were a virus and breathe a sign of relief when it’s over. Girls are icky, love is stupid, big boy’s don’t cry, won’t someone kiss it better?
Grow up.
What I do know I do when I’m writing is stick my tongue out and bite it. A girl in the office pointed this out to me a few weeks back. "my cousin does that - it’s cute. It’s cute on him - because he’s 3 years old." I don’t mind if I poke my tongue out like a 3-year-old when I’m thinking. If I cared about how cool I looked I’d buy better shoes and get a haircut.
What does bother me is how these things could be taken as a sign of immaturity when they are not, yet immature I am. I don’t measure my maturity by my success or failure in my job, the car I don’t own or the slum I live in. it’s not measured by the qualifications I didn’t get, the toys in my room or the comics on my bedside table.
What is immature is that when I feel, as I have this past week, vulnerable and emotional - over aware of the ache: of these rare - near extinct - days when I want to sink down and be tended. Cared for, loved, that I react to it with stoicism. I grit my teeth and carry on as if nothing has changed. I don’t look at what’s going on and try to help myself. I endure - and wait for it to pass. I wait for it to go away.
I treat this sign that I am human as if it were a virus and breathe a sign of relief when it’s over. Girls are icky, love is stupid, big boy’s don’t cry, won’t someone kiss it better?
Grow up.