There is no beginning, only what I need to do what I need to create
keepdancingkeepdreaming that someting
might make sense
that someday I might have a home that someday I might have a her
who stays.

Sitting at Boe’s house while he’s in L.A., strangely wanting to go across the street and crawl into my van
where I know it is mine
and something  happens there that helps this shit get out, because right now I don;t have the words. I delete as much as I write fuck it I’ll just keep going there is no poetry there is no magick in my words anymore, not these days. All I can do is throw this shit at the screen and forget about it for a time, never being able to say what I feel. I haven’t read a book in ages. I don’t know what that means, or why, but I know I feel it, somehow, on some level. Everything is somewhere else, including me. It’s been far too long since I’ve been able to focus on anything but survival, far too long.

I sit in Boe’s house, and know that I am only the perpetual visitor. The Vagabond. I love this place, I love being able to spend time with him – we laugh incessantly, come up with brilliant ideas (it was his approval of the idea for the magazine that helped me feel that it was possible) but – fuck. FUCK. There is something missing, something incredibly vital.

I’m missing me.

I haven’t taken a decent walk in ages, just aimlessly wandering and not thinking about anything. I haven’t meditated, I haven’t slept well in weeks – I haven’t taken care of my soul. There is no rest there are no words there is so much to do I need to find a home I need to be happy I need to get shit done that I have no idea how to accomplish and I wish these words were better and i think I know what I need to do.

No. I have no idea – but I’ll start with meditating, walking, trying to rid myself of the shit that is consuming me. This is not me.

this is me, now. I need to change it. I need to change me, now.

I am not satisfied with anything.

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