God I am so rusty and all the things getting buried deeper and deeper in my head until they come out like smooth stones safe to pass…
You just want to do it all justice but you stop yourself the older you get and the more you realize how much it matters. When I was younger, everything I wrote was trying on feelings, I would feel pain and try it on in front of the mirror, walk around a mock it a bit, not saying we didn’t have our pain we were just better at masking it. As we get older though it becomes something sacred and coveted and real, and you don’t want to talk about all that shit anymore, but rather talk about all the things that are beautiful which of course are dull. My child at the park on a swing, me ducking and diving like a boxer against the smiling turbulent predictable swings of his feet, a high five at the crescendo. The sun in our hot back window and mowing the lawn.
Something cool to write about… her
Something boring to write about… my kid taking a shit
Something cool to write about… vampire weekend
Something real to write about… the never ending trying to make my life clean again
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