procrastination and a well of useless thoughts

I have had a lot of things that I have been writing in pieces and they all kind of have a central theme. While it is admittedly self centered, it is what I have to offer by way of introspection these last few weeks between Portland, Montana, school, and family. I feel as though I should post them so that I can be done and move on. Maybe it will prove egotistical, maybe there is something worthwhile here.

I wonder if I will look back fondly on these day spent waking up too slowly as the rain beats and plays in turn on the hangar roof. I know I will look back on this time... on who I am now, after I have faded into who I am becoming. I wonder what she will think of me then. If she will think me naive or short sighted or if she will understand or even thank me. I cannot think of anything I am doing now to warrant thanking (and maybe I should change that) but maybe it is for all that I do not go do that I will be thankful. It is hard to tell one thing from another these days.

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I don’t think I have grown up into who I wanted to be. This is, perhaps, because I have always (and I do mean just about always) viewed growing up as a sort of lifelong unwrapping of a package with the full implication that there is no reason to ever lose a sense of wonder and anticipation for the future. And I am not done yet.

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I have, throughout the course of my life, been thanked a good many times for being me; but I do not yet know who else I would be. It did not seem to me a choice. Who else was there to be? It seems an odd thing to be thanked for; and yet I am grateful because, for every time I have been thanked, I have also felt the weight of confused hands trying to reshape me into something that will make more sense, something a little easier to understand, something smaller and less contradictory. 


I do not take well to this. I do not believe any human being should. It should take a lifetime to make a person make complete sense. There should be enough stuff to them to beg questions and require more context, more explanation, more than whatever it is that you see on a single given day. We are complex stuff made of God-breath and dirt. Resilient against destruction. Fragile to our cores.

I am an artist and a mechanic. The poems and sketches written in green pen in the margins of my notes are the reason I never lend them out to people who miss a day, as selfish as that is. I am entitled to my idiosyncrasies and secrets though. Or so I believe.

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You make me explode
with all of the words I could say
if they mattered at all
but they don’t.
Not when you’re around at least.
And when you are gone,
there’s no one to say them to.
And so I give into steady silent combustion

Wondering if I want to burn out
Or just sit here a while longer with you.