I blame Kerouac for this urge, if not my genes. And my father for the fact that I can never sit comfortably, never let that blood pressure simmer. Someone said I was many things but not laidback, regardless I scrutinized that sentence for everything from flirtation to syntax. There is no offswitch for the currents in this conduit. No call-waiting to split space-time and teleconference.
If someone simply read my words they would not know me. And yet trembling beneath each sentence, like things that live in the soil, there I am. And the anxiety vibrating that ink is the same thing that makes my eyes twitch in the shower and on the commute. The same thing I silence with distractions.
The semester is ending and I am now in legit senior standing. One full-timer's semester from being degree'd in English studies. And most of the time I feel privy to no special knowledge, and then my brother (in arms and furnishings and blood and time) asks me to define Post-Modernism and we talk until my paper is late or we both go to sleep so we can push buttons for money in the morning. There is an infinity, yet, of things to learn. I've just spread out into more of it than I had realized.
1 comments:
"If someone simply read my words they would not know me. And yet trembling beneath each sentence, like things that live in the soil, there I am."
I believe we had this conversation once.
Exquisitely written, I felt every word.
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