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On the bookshelf

I have been eating my old poetry today.  It’s amazing how much we forget the brilliance that has in some way or other eked out of us.  Winter is hard, it’s hard to remember what we’re shooting for, because, at the same time, we’re re-evaluating the whole plan we had when the sun was still high, and the days were still long.  Did I make it right?  Am I on the path?

I’ve been so social, a kernel in a popcorn popper, ready to be buttered.  But that’s not all there is here.  I’m out there looking for a story, for support, for laughter.  And most of the time, this extrovert just goes into performance mode, and the whole escapade is an inspiration train.  But I have to believe my charade.  And, really, it’s not a charade at all, but me, glowing.

I need this alone time.  And I need to remember what I wanted to do with this alone time.  It’s hard to shut down the distractors, to know that it’s all enough.  Enough for now.

I began this day with a list of goals that felt unattainable.  I didn’t attain them all.  I need to work on my lists I suppose.  Maybe if I made reasonable lists, I’d need less distraction, because I’d feel better about my day.

I sat for a good fifteen minutes on the floor in front of my bookcase talking to myself, or rather, the ghosts of my dead relatives.  The 49ers are going to the playoffs, and fireworks were going off all day.  I was just confused.  Where do I go from here?  I have to begin planning.  But for what?  I have been researching magazines and jobs and going on dates, looking at neighborhoods, dreaming of love, money and words.  Where do they hide?

And I looked up at the bookshelf.  I must have near 500 books on my shelves.  I have, in my home, the dreams of 500 people, who probably sat on their floors wondering if they could really do it.  I have the voices of those who didn’t know if they could keep writing, living on a tight budget, or lacking the time for the words and ideas they love(d).  But they each did it.  That made me want to persist.

Everyone has to learn to read.  Everyone has to learn to write.  What number of us love it?  Few.  What number of us do it well? Fewer still.  What number of us have the courage to keep trying until we get it right?  I don’t know.  But I want to be one.  I want my book on that shelf.

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