stream of whateverness

My voice is soft, I can narrate a movie. I speak only what I see what I always see is a sense of sex. Wrapped around me, not literally but just as real. I had no suspenseful, apathetic childhood, I existed in calm successions of disappointment and victories, the same as a high school cheerleader. I existed normally with no alcoholic mother or absent father, I existed relentlessly with a small voice but a large mind, I existed for the sake of existing with nothing special that I could see, but migrant emotions that moved from one end of my head to another, in laps like college athletes. with tremmers I could feel in my skull. I exist, for the sheer sake of existing. I call on Tenneseee Williams play’s for inspiration and its so southern I cant call in relatable. I call on others around me for spouts of creativity but its so young I cant call it helpful. No one’s quite as pronounced as they think: walking with their talents in a suitcase by their side, waiting to pull it out, dress nicely in it, and show it off for the world to see. I call on drugs for something to do, but it’s never as much as I ever want cause what I always want is more. That’s bad, the same kind of bad real writers think about: lack of motivation. I care about it as much as you do, honestly. I see things around me darken into a perfect circle and that’s where I see my destination, right in the fucking center. Unattainably laughing like the girls in my third grade class, taunting my talents with feathers and food making me giggle and long—all I want is to have you close and dispense you rightly into the world. Go, go, the same as some women feel about their children and others feel about their business and some feel for their gardening experiments or any talent that exists deep under their bones. Bloom, and fourish, the way I want you to. I’ll water you, if the seed is planted correctly, and if you do for me what I want for you I’ll make you the love of my life. I’m not oblivious, not anymore to the mediocrity of my character, what I need to learn is how to work with it and educate it into something that could quite possibly be a success. What I need to learn is how to use what I am willing to use, to discipline it into something that is, essentially, useful. The question of whether or not that is possible is still floating around my head like the aroma of my girlfriend’s cooking. I’m not like the female character in Tennessee Williams’s the glass menagerie, right? I’m not like her. My collectables are not physical items, but breakable ideas that I keep lined in my head, just as inhibited as hers, but not as unimaginative. I can create them myself, not buy them already made, and while I feel a connection with this character, hers is much more endured with pain and lack of confidence, and mine with simple cowardliness.