Free Writing – 2/18/11
Holy Shit, I want to eat my soup.
I want to drink, I want to savor, I want to go to fucking Italy. I want to write in fucking Italy. I want to eat some thin crusted, sweet sauced pizza in the shadow of a mountain that once poured itself over like a tired drunk in an alley onto some striving colony of carpenter ants, drowning them where they stood, burning them with the bile of its stomach until there was nothing left but a memory – but a whisper of a memory of what they’d once been striving for. I want to live. I want to articulate the drive that fuels that desire, but more aptly, why that desire drives me to Italy, to the ruins of Pompeii and before everything, why it drives me to want to eat my fucking soup.
This pen is my favorite color.
I somehow mourn the loss of what was, of what might never be again because somehow our worlds are now being captured by screens the size of postage stamps. I want to leave a mark, a space in which once something stood, like a monolith with the courageous words of some violent poet or the simple song of some peaceful warrior carved into its face. I want to be that monolith, I want to take up space.
Where the fuck is my mind going? Strange places, that. Most certainly focusing on things having to do with the delete button that has somehow appeared over everyone’s head. Somewhere in the world, an emoticon is a fucking insult. I want to live in that world or create it anew where I stand because let’s be honest, I like indoor plumbing. (Glance up to see Writing exercise time has yet to run out.) There are still words to write. Seriously? My hand hurts. Still, I love this fucking pen.
When I read this in a month, a year, since I’m such a fucking hoarder of paper products and will never throw this away, what the hell will I think of whatever the hell I was thinking? I’m sure I won’t know then, given I have no fucking clue even now.
God, I want to eat my damn soup.