It's nearly midnight. The air outside is comfortable, it was a hot day today, and the sky is blackened by a lack of something that only disappear at night. There's a beautiful Sakura tree above me, but it is letting go of all the things it blossomed and so quickly forgot. They fall, intermittently, as the wielder of their livelihood slowly stops feeding it.
People walk by. The kind of people I pray don't approach me with their version of “tantalizing conversation”. The only ambient noise being the briskly paced traffic that comes and goes like waves on the beach, however unlike the tired ocean they grow further apart as time passes.
I find myself thinking about all the things I didn't say.
I never once told myself that I'd become a writer. It never occurred to me. Until it did. All at once. And by that point in time there was no sense in saying such a thing out loud. I never once said that I'd drink too much, or fall head over heals for the crux of caffeine. Or nicotine for that matter. I was never one to articulate the idea that I would fawn over materials because I once craved them so much. Or that I'd take a seed of cynicism, and nurture it until it became an abandoning part of who I am. No one heard me tell a tale of a man with an anxious head, feeding a fear that is alienating.
All the things I said I would do, I haven't. Yet not once did I say I'd do the things that I have.
Those things just… happened.
My controversial, and contradicting addiction to being a desired commodity, all while desiring for myself to be crowded by no one, wasn't a plan of action that I have since executed on, flawlessly.
That's a stranding thought.
I see my cousin, who is an astounding superstar, succeeding at something she didn't say she ever wanted with certainty. But there it is. Gold medals and all. Strung on her neck, at a time when uncertainty is certain, the weight of a natural success. But where does one go from there?
At my age, when I am "supposed" to know what I'm doing, I've only ever (painfully at times) succeeded in doing the things I didn't set out to do.
Suppose I'm supposed to assume the inevitable - That I do believe I was meant to share, in words, my world - where am I supposed to oppose that law, should the supposed bestowing fit too tightly?
When the only thing I'm flawless at is awfully unlawful but spiteful artful, what can I change to change the way it affects those who fully commit themselves to my cause of laws? Or my lack thereof.
Then what about the worst of it? When I don't admit, out loud, my faults. Some would say it's beneficial during turmoil to display that I am aware of these things. Instead, I repeat-scratch into my vinyl -- said the unspoken facts in my head until the crowd of negativity grows so loud my ears ring, and the riot task force is called in.
Positive or not, a lot goes unsaid.
And ... I don't know what to say about that.