Friday, June 11, 2010

the difficult hazardous poetic way

Sitting here, absorbed in myself, its easy to lose track. Time spent with my eyelashes in the pages of books, nose in gin and tonics, and eyes towards the ground to avoid bumps and shit piles of real interaction, its easy to forget, to realize what my selfish actions say to everyone around me.

If at best, I feel present a month later, a half-year later, maybe more, when will I realize how those sideline relationships have changed? Will I wake up and realize that your best friend might not be so anymore, because I can't remember the last time we spoke on the phone? Or to suddenly see that I've unfficially been excluded from a group I once considered close, to be a true outsider, because I had my own shit and felt it would be a burden to catch them up. It sort of sucks, because it's not like I can ever catch up when its been that long, like you can swing a last minute flight to vegas to participate. The next time, their inside jokes will flow, and lost, I'll pretend to laugh while feeling inadequate and clueless and bitter all at the same time.

But it's worth it right? All we have is our "Self" and our "gods" and our crystals and our feelings and knowledge and egos. Sometimes these things seem to project our worth in inflated terms; our stock rises as self-consciousness flies out the window. Sweet witty acquaintances reach out to tell their secrets because they felt you'd care. Admirers from afar keep quiet until they reach your city, bombarding you with feelings they've been repressing for months, existing in the ether while you strut up and down streets, pick your nose and read yet another rock biography.

To be truly present seems something that can only be learned through experience. All I can gather is that if one acts instantly, the present will come more naturally. Sans procrastination, everything can be revealed.

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