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What happened to me?

I'm reading all this old writing and realizing how much I lie to myself about it all. I always believe I'm just around the corner from getting this writing stuff right. I think I've improved. But then I read the old stuff and there are pieces that have this quality of wandering like unfettered paint strokes, smeared and strewn. Like powder and blush in the hands of a toddler. Dust flying everywhere and joy upon cheeks.

I've been living an unsuccessful suburban life. I don't live in a suburb but I have the third row seats to get there. The kids do activities that are anytown things and I do too. Grocery store. Sheets changed. Soccer games. No cubicle at least but a near-nonexistent retirement plan. Yawnfest.

But I was shaken back to myself. Back to the person who has an impromptu dance party and takes the kids into the cave they want to check out. I was reminded that I like to make leaf rubbings for the feel of the friction. I couldn't say where a single color stayed put on a single page. Permanency just wasn't the point. My writing was driven by an etheral muse and my life floated along with her too.

Now, my writing is direct, bullet points. I will pin it into organization. A plan. A plot point. An outline. I'll solve it and find my way to excellence with diligence and stick-to-it-iveness. Goals and plans; deadlines and working harder AND smarter.

Except my old stuff was better. So I think my plotline is that gummy sticky doll you throw against a wall and then it falls--hands over feet, pausing, then hands, feet--sticky until it smacks the floor and the dogs chew it up. Fuck routines and order. Maybe I'll never be better. Maybe I'm just fine as I am. Maybe I am a poet with a bad mouth. Maybe I'm a lover without a match
striking my throat into speaking
my fingers to typing
unwilling to strike "publish"

Maybe I've been too busy writing objectives and now it's time to wander and lust and get lost.
Maybe.

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