A Collection of Spectacles


Here, again. The same space I preoccupy more often than any other. Often, a different voice leads me there, sometimes an old one resurfaces and yells louder, making me ignore all the rest. This peculiar limbo can either lead to the best of all options that I have yet to experience, or the worst of all feelings, the sting of which I know extremely well. There’s an awful, cyclical way of thinking involved, a pattern that bends in and on itself. Who do I have to be in order to appease someone else, knowing that I shouldn’t attempt to try and be anything other than who I am in my present form? My stumbles are less charming after the alcohol’s worn off and I see all I’ve attempted, but without “helpful” aids, I’m standoffish. A new exercise in patience and honing spontaneity requires that I don’t spend too long on the words I’m writing right now. To act without thinking, but still make every move true, is what I should strive for.

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