A Foot Condition

I've been having a thought lately. It's been running circles in my head and it won't come out. Who's to say it ever will? That's the work of a lifetime, I've found: to make it all come out. That's why a lot of artists kill themselves.

Cowards.

Gonna make it all come out before I get out of here.

I think I've given up on happy. It's a race. I've never been much of a runner (I have a foot condition). I'll have to settle for purpose over happy, if I can have that. Most days I fear I'll fail at that too.

I confuse the two, happiness and purpose. If I'm happy, I think that everything I do has meaning. If I'm not, then everything is stupid and I've failed. Everyone else is doing better because they seem to smile when I don't look at them directly.

After all these years, I haven't learned to be direct. Maybe I should try happy?

No. It's a race. My feet weren't designed for that. I'm going to stay.

Maybe I wasn't designed for happy either.

We can't all be happy all the time, you know. It's like money. In order for some to have a lot, most people have to get by with little or none. I don't mind, but it seems like I don't meet too many of the people with lots, and if I'm going to have to do without, I would at least like to know that the people around me aren't going through the same thing.

That's one thing I would ask God. If you must continue in this way, will you take care of the ones I love? I will be satisfied in that.

People talk to me all the time about being depressed. Their arguments usually amount to something along the lines of "I don't like that, so stop it." It's a fair argument, but it's not complete.

You don't know what I've seen.

What I'm able to see. Not yet.

I'm not afraid.

I'm not afraid of sacrificing my entire life to failure for the hope of one success. I'm not afraid of death; I will embrace it when it is my time. I am not scared to be misunderstood. Got to keep breathing. Got to keep writing happy endings because I haven't seen a real one. Got to make it all come out before I go.

I will be satisfied in that.

Umbrella

I find refuge in the time I have to myself.

I think, at one time I was supposed to find refuge in something(someone?) else, but I often forget who that is, and mistake that identity for someone else. I guess I had better hope that this great thing that I never seem to stop looking for is also somehow inside of me, or I may never find it.

Or perhaps, I'll find it and then I'll just give up because I'll never get my head around it or it scares me too much. That's why we watch movies and listen to music. That thing is out there, somewhere in the real world. Better to stay indoors as much as possible, and always go out with an umbrella.

Actually, I prefer Youtube. Sometimes the movies talk about it too.

I'm in a shop called "Hands Coffee." The barrista is kind of cute. I wonder what would happen if I went up to her and told her that, and maybe kissed her on the cheek. Maybe it would be like a movie, except for the part where it's her turn to react.

That's another thing I like about the movies. There's always a main character. I can never react to anything properly because I'm pretty sure I'm an extra. With the amount of effort I put into my life, I'll be lucky if I'm even credited.

The slogan for this place is "My life, my choice." I'm suddenly worried that there are stem cells in my coffee. I forget why that's supposed to make me angry. It has something to do with Christopher Reeve, but he's dead. Should I still be upset?

Anyway, I'm about finished with my latte and I can safely say that the slogan is the only strong thing about this place.

The PA system is playing a jazz cover of "Tainted Love," This has nothing to do with anything (I wish it did) but I thought I'd mention it anyway.

I think the barrista is smiling at me out of the corner of my eye. I try smiling at her. I don't think she was smiling at me anymore.

What I wouldn't give to be at least a supporting cast member. Like Ron Weasley.

He got Hermoine. How the hell did that happen?

This place is orange. I can see the cold, steel blue of the outdoors through the windows. I've been learning about color temperature online in my free time. Everything we think we know is backwards. All the cool colors come from high temperatures, and all the warm ones come from lower temperatures. Does that mean that the outside is warmer?

Or at least, more heat?

Heat isn't the same as temperature. We learned that in school. Temperature is a number, but heat is motion. A vat of molten steel has nothing on the heat generated by the ocean.

Motion. So many things moving around. Life has no plot that I can find.

My hand is on the door. I wait for the heat to come. THe ocean. It spins around in circles, and no one can breathe underwater. The barrista notices me leaving.

"감사합니다! 안녕히 가십시요!"

I'll bet she says that to everyone.

Candid/Candone

God is a photographer.

I've been a bit into photography lately, and one of my more willful sins is to think that God is a little bit like me. Perhaps we have a few hobbies in common. I feel the need to indulge in the mood I'm in right now, so you, O loyal reader(s?) will have to forgive me (as He often does).

He put a soft filter of fog down around the whole of the landscape. Spared no expense. The colors are outlined deep against the grey of yet another subtlety that they all dismiss as absence.

He is not seen.

He is behind.

He is gathering exposure.

These days, I am becoming more sensitive to light. I don't understand what it is, but I think that the world is posed; caught in the middle of saying "cheese."

I'll wait until I catch you off guard. I can picture you better that way.