“But how could they do this to me?
Born head first and brought up ankle deep.
And maybe you’re a lot like me- identified for 14 years without a choice.
Terrified the morning you woke up and realized
that if and when you jump ship,
you either swim for shore or drown.
Don’t let the fuckers drag you down.”

The Distance was Long

Today is the fifth consecutive day of sunshine in San Francisco. Completely unreal. It hasn’t been sunny for this many days in a row since..March? And even then it was rare. I really, really want this weather to keep up. I like life so much more when there’s sun. But, then again, I would melt if it got hot here.

This place is weird because, for a town with such steady temperature, the weather is constantly changing. In a couple hours, it could be cold and foggy. We’ll see.

Last Wednesday my brother got in town – we did a lot of fun stuff, including: eating delicious food, hanging out with mooj, going hiking near Los Gatos, seeing the Sutro Ruins and Land’s End for the first time, visiting the facebook office, and exploring various places. Last night we saw Away We Go, and it was really good and way too cute. But now I’m tired, and there’s a lot of fun stuff coming up, but I kind of just want to sit and read, write, and make some patches in the sun, before I’m running all over the place again. I guess I’m getting old, or just more comfortable doing things alone, because alone time used to be the last thing I ever wanted. Now I just want to think, read, listen to Madeline, and make maps in my mind.

why i don’t write

there are words inside of me. words flow through me. i remember when i first realized that i think in language. it was the most beautiful thought; more beautiful for its self awareness. it was known, fully known, at least to itself.

i know, always, why i do or don’t do this or the other. it’s just a matter of admitting it. i know i, at least, always know when something is wrong for me, when it doesn’t feel right. and, yet, i don’t do things that are good for me. things i want. i don’t want to live with a box of half-assed, half-full journals. a new one for each phase of life, a new one for each promise that i would finally begin to write.

so i don’t write. i am not a writer. why. i am afraid. why. i have no words. why. i have the wrong words. why. i am not intelligent. why. i did not study. why. i got distracted. why. life. boys. why. self-loathing. why. fear. why. i am not good enough. not smart enough. not worthy. why. it has been done better, longer, stronger, smarter. i am not a writer.

i am afraid.

i am self-defeating. i am self-deprecating. i should be a writer.

but i have nothing new to say. i am afraid. my story hasn’t been told, but i don’t know how to tell it. for all my admiration of story telling, my love of recounting the past, i have never been a story teller. i am filled with ideas for entries, essays, zines, books. i make excuses. it is never the perfect weather. i am never awake enough. never motivated enough. never in a cafe, with a tea, a pen, and the sun. hell, i get anxious being alone. every day i try to shift the focus away from my self. if i think of someone else, i won’t have to be thinking of myself. i am self-defeating. this has been done.

interests: examination of the self, repetition, cyclical thought, non-linearity, lyrical prose. it’s all been done. so, so well.

but this is the story of why i am not.

maybe soon i will be able to write the story of what i am.