All I Really Want

I feel like hiding in a wonderful little cottage in the clouds. I want a moment to think, a second to get unfrustrated, a minute to talk to God. I want to sit with kindred souls, and eat cupcakes. I want to knit, listen to music, take bubble baths, read a thousand books, take naps, and dance. I want intellectual intercourse. I want challege, freedom, justice, peace, and a new president. I want a clean earth, barefootedness, and hopefulness. I want EVERYTHING.

I am restless. I am craving. I am searching. I am lost. I am idealistic.

I am spilling open.


Here's the way it is: nobody knows what they really want. We are uncertain; it's as though we've said, "Fuck it. I don't care. Wait, come back."
We do things for others, not ourselves, while our health and state of mind deteriorates. We worry what others think, yet we want total freedom. We censor ourselves, yet we let ourselves be explict.

Like Alanis said, "It's too much ask for and I am not the Doctor." (I've been listening to her a lot lately.)

What are we, as a nation, hungering for? We are gluttiness, obese, vulgar, snotty, unapologetic, filfthy, wasteful, overworked, underpaid, greedy, and unsatisfied. We are on the path to self-desructing.
Good news though. We know what we need to do to be better.
Where should we begin? I say let's start withourselves. If you feel like dancing, then dance. If you feel like being smart, then delve into something intellectual. If you feel like saying something, then say it. Be humbled. Wear your shirt on backwards. Look at the clouds and the stars and the dirt under your own two feet. Take a moment to sit in absolute silence. Do what you want. LIVE.
True, I do not live life the way I am suggesting, but I'm working on it. I have dreams, fantasies, and hopes. All I really want is to accomplish them.

I am spilling open.

My art is who I am, but I am afraid what others will think of it. I want pink hair, but I fear losing my job over it. People come to me with their problems, but I I don't want to listen to them.
So I have decided to say, "Fuck it."
and I am not going back.

I am coming apart at the seams.

So here's how it is. I am going to make one promise. It isn't for you, or my mom, or God, or for anyone else. It is just for me. I am promising myself to not sew myself back up...in fact, I'm going to pull the thread.

I am spilling open, and I like it.