I read this quote awhile back from “(Mis)Adventures in Poetry” by D.A. Powell in The Writer’s Notebook: Craft Essays from Tin House. Tin House Books: 2009.
And I decided to follow it. I opened up my laptop and just started typing. Rhymes aside. Editing forgotten. No message in mind.—I just typed. I made a maze.
This was the result:
Looking out the window on the train away from South Bend. Each house holds a human. A human with a story that I most likely won’t ever know. Every minute I pass hundreds more. Thousands of stories that deserve to be told. I hope that they’re shared. I’d like to hear them. Irrelevant. That’s what my story is to most. My friends. My family. They’ll say that isn’t so. But so few would care to listen. What makes someone important? What makes someone care? How do I know to care for my future husband when we meet? I don’t think there’s a plan. How do people come together? How do they come together as more than just a passerby? As more than just a friend? There are just too many chances. Too many ways. The choices are endless and so are the days. I can’t stop my fingers from typing away. I just have too many questions too much to say. Teach me to appreciate things. To take note of my smiles. I’m a lover. And somewhere there’s a heart to receive me. I can still be what I want to. If only I knew what I wanted. I’ve learned to live on my own. Accept independence. But I’m jaded. Fed-up. Exhausted. And tiered. I find my thoughts turning cynical and my life turning sour. It’s hard to be hopeful. To have all that hope. Positivity is not easy and mine…it wears thin.
Pick it up. Pick it up. I don’t even know what I’m typing. Supposedly there was a time when I was happy all the time—oblivious of life’s bigger issues . Not focused on the future. I don’t know. I don’t . I don’t know. So much. There’s so much I don’t know, so much I never will. There are just so many people all with an opinion of their own. Everyone has a story. Some are never told. But if you asked me to tell you mine I wouldn’t speak a single word. Story? What story. I don’t have one of those. Not one of importance, not one worth being told. But back to the care—the care that people have. Supposedly. some one. some day. will want to hear my story. Want to be a part of it. I don’t know. I don’t know. I will say it 20 times more. Because I don’t . I just don’t and I live my life without data, without facts without knowing myself.
How does one hold onto their happiness? How do you keep it in one place? I’m tired of the fluctuation. I’m tired of this pace.