The words I’ve written swim around in my mind the worlds I’ve lived in swim around in my heart and gods if there was a chance to going back to the me that I was I would because
I don’t like the me I’ve become.
Not long ago there was a woman I met – Michelle, at a dear friends birthday party. I gave her a bit of my book. I gave her nothing what it will be. “Coming so close to death changes a person.”
I agreed, but… but I didn’t tell her that it changed me into someone who hoped for it, who spent every single fucking day wondering where I went – the passion, the dreams, the drive, determination. The me who wanted to envelop myself in the flesh of everyone, to taste them, to hear them, to show them what I had learned. What I had been taught.
I went, for the first time, to Bawdy Storytelling tonight, and felt like a very old man – a man who has experienced everything and still yearned for desire, but couldn’t find it. There are reasons I feel ugly, estranged, unwanted. None of them are rational, but still – they are there and they pollute me.
I just want to me me again. I haven’t changed that much – not THAT much.
This is what I want to believe. This is what I will, eventually, come back to.
The traveler, not the disdainful hermit with nothing left but memories.
This is what I hope for – for whatever hope is worth.