Posessed and repressed

My feelings lately have come swirling to the surface, obvious to me,
yet not to others, and I have tried hard to hide them, shove them down
deep in my pockets, to be picked up and flicked up around winding
pretzels packed tight into dusty bags of yesterday. They are
miscalculated, discombobulated, scarlet, and clear. They run like noses
can, and sometimes even the best of planning cannot hide them far away.
I feel like the testing I do of myself has finally come to an end, and
despite the hopes and dreams that others had for me, I can still
middle-finger them and walk my own road.

I am contemplating writing this book. Though I am not sure about having
it pre-formatted in deadline though the discipline would most likely do
some good. I am a young and old soul wrapped in a tight package. I have
had visions of the guilt one could only inspire from a successful
though unintentional ending. I feel as though I might have done
something terrible in a  past life, but I am not done making up
for it.

I have this little illustrated magazine idea I have had for so long
it’s retarded. And now the time that I have is a little more conducive
to its production. And I can put it out under one of three names I have
already.

The giving season has commenced with a tidy array of Christmas
decorations put out too early, to commemorate the beginning of the
season of consumerism. Isn’t that nice of them? I think my season of
giving will be highlighted by not purchasing much of anything directly
gift-related, but perhaps a thing or two for someone special that I
cannot construct myself.

My living room is full of three boys, much like it was a month and some
ago. My dog is draped across the cushion behind B. There are
various things scattered on my living room table, from gummy strawberry Japanese candy wrappers to makeup, the discarded ends
we’ve smoked, and magazines and periodicals poking from underneath
discarded mail. Medicine, chocolate syrup.

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