consumed
if you were to ask: "tell me about yourself"
like an interview. like all the dreaded open endings that the lackluster lazy place said behind a desk, a placard, "i made it. now you..."
i wouldn't know where to start, i don't remember when my self started. i could bet where it ended, in conversations such as these.
if i were to guess how i'd start to answer, it would be about how i'm always a few moments behind where i want to be, how the last few decisions didn't make the impact fast enough. how i am the person i made a few years back, and how i am so already tired of who i have become. i wouldn't want to advertise this person, but that's not what you were asking. you want to know my past past, in the most decorated description. i'm good at that: inflating the truth. well... i thought i was. truthfully, all the words that i'm testing in conversation are embarrassing, cause they are, like me, a few me's behind who i wanted to be.
the real me is a horrified faith, considering the future of each moment, maelstrom, until the thought deep finds me on the surface of forgetting to enjoy the scenery. that faith says: "trust or not, i'll find you... here."
“patience. patience. patience.” i say it to myself, faster each succession: a mantra that outruns itself.
time is a comedian.
i often remember mistakes in the things i said, or did, and cringe. i remember the boy who raised me: the one petrified of life, perpetually unable to croak out a belief. he could barely talk without everything that wasn't him coming out. now i sputter to myself, and hope there isn't someone else around to see my inadvertent disembowelment.
sometimes my ego looks around hoping someone to notice when i'm doing the right kinds of things. i'm impressive, you know. but i know it's not impressive to tell you about it. so i keep my most admirable moments to myself, and god. it's odd to feel alone in that, to know i was chosen to repeat the experience until it doesn't feel like loneliness anymore. validation has always felt sour to me anyways, something about the expectation of admiration reciprocating. complimentary egos are a machine, that way, predicting the input to get exactly what they wanted.
i tire of consumption.
i could describe my ego, how it inverted upon witnessing all of this. it craved to advertise that it wasn’t materialistic, or performative. it is adept at concealing my desires. it shows the world of how little i have, how unattractive: “you don’t want me, you wouldn’t like to live like this.” my humility is the same, a misdirection. really, i’m not humble at all, i deeply disbelieve in myself, feel my abilities are not enough, am disappointed in how little i’ve done to help others. disappointed. disgusted. that i wasn’t aware, vigorous, heroic. achievement, the kind of effort that delivers significance, is still so far off. how i misplaced all of my vitality, and now have so little left to give. today, i trade my days for a chance to see something worth seeing.
ask life for a life worth sharing.
laugh at the inevitable fumble of my gifts.
whisper to myself: someday…
