None of this makes any sense. Practice writing.

Getting older is weird, doing this with these fingers, just strange, and it doesn’t feel like I should be here, and I am, I’m here, just practicing on Christmas and alone, been alone, night, so long, days and black cat followed me to the store tonight but I couldn’t bring him anywhere. He wanted to go, nice kitty stay here I said you can’t go this way with me, because I don’t know where that is, where I’m at right now. A story, I could write a story about this, about so many things, and the cat was fat, puffed up and didn’t even look cold but I know he had to be cold. And church and the stars such a clear night tonight, and I’ve been feeling cloudy lately, empty, as sometimes you feel when you’re a human being. Existential maybe , but only because I’m always existing. Doing laundry and shave my face and need to eat better and take care of myself better but nowhere yet trying to get safe. People ask me questions, I don’t know, I need to stop talking for a while, stop writing catch up, but sometimes you have to listen to music, and ring your ears out and take a hot shower because you meditate and you have a job to do in the shower and that’s to be safe, to get clean, to be alone, to be free, to not have to write, just sit there, and I always take showers in the dark, my eyes have adjusted to the dark, my mind hasn’t, I miss the sun, I miss things I can’t even remember anymore, and the days that seemed like hell in the past are even some of the days I miss the most. A goal, has there ever been a goal, just waiting for something, for this moment to pass of this realization of true hope without a cause, but it’s there and the days and minutes keep passing and life just goes, and I don’t have time for people who don’t respect me. I don’t have time to talk. I have stopped talking about what they want, because I do what I do and I do a damn good job at it. Life flows, life, all , only, everything is really so easy and why do we fight so much, why do I ask so much out of myself when I have nothing, why do I try to write these words hoping something new will come out, and you have to get better, get wiser, see the wise guesses of life fuller, see that were all the same, alive, and that all of this is just alright, just enough, waiting around, I hate waiting around, but waiting around these days; seems like I’m only waiting. Christmas seems lost this year on me. Music seems old right now to me. My words seem lost. My mind seems tired. Life and sketch whats inside of the cat’s head. Be the cat the whiskers the black cat, where did the cat go, who does the cat even know around this street, why doesn’t the cat get to be a human, and the cat doesn’t care if he’s a human or not , because the cat thinks cat thoughts and cat going places up trees on bark in leafs branches going curving around in the sky and up passed the cold sky space and stars night even seen when the sun is down, and who knows around the sun earth spins goes around and around and we write these words and kids they wish for happiness and I wish for happiness and I write and edit and practice and worry about doing this my whole life lost and not going back down up a tree a cat I’m the cat not me, not the writer climbing down the tree cat black cat, see a man coming and wants to go home and that man is me; the black cat climbs down onto sidewalk and licks his paws on street I walk, it’s the middle of the night, and  people coming home from family gatherings and home from midnight church Christmas tree never put up this year and never really thinking when to stop, books done, life growing, and I don’t know what else I have to do. Never fade away never written out, keep getting better practice smooth steps and distracts within the errors of my life and let voices speak for themselves, if only to last a bit longer than the finger can put up with.

Just practice, and man oh man what else could it be? The real stories are in my books.

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