another night of should’ve writtens almost escaped, but i managed to scribble something nonetheless. sitting in a dark mildly air-conditioned room out here in the desert, with a plate of falafel and a head full of memories, i watch him sing. the songs take me back to the times i was lost in bottles. independent and alone. no one to answer to, not even myself.
it is important to keep the promises we make to ourselves when we were young. on my skin i see ink stains reminding me of my vows. in his voice i remind myself to stay true to art. out here in this consumer wasteland it is easy to get caught up in forgetting, surviving, making a living, but not actually living.
outside a small garden i have planted takes a shape. a daily reminder of patience and dedication. perhaps i have moved too far from my thoughts and journals, perhaps I have moved too far from my empty smoky rooms and dead-end deadened nights thrashing my head against the walls. perhaps i am not in enough pain to still feel alive.
i have decided to loudly whisper these words to a voice out there still listening, even if it is only my own. i did not carve out my identity so painstakingly to let him fade into another clone. promises were made, seeds planted. i think i may finally be bearing fruit…