Words layed like bricks building a bridge to nowhereland

It would be wise I think to take a walk tonight. Step outside into the warm summer night and let the breeze lift these weary thoughts from my mind. Their hold on me is so loose, they would float away with a breath. A sigh. Yet their presence I find, oddly, comforting. A shadow of the Nathan I once knew. The boy so frightened of and paralyzed by his emotions that all he knew to do was write them down. Penned in frantic freeverse on scraps of internet paper. I’m an exhibitionist I suppose. Like so many of my generation. Important in our own universe. So desperate to have our voices heard, we’d whisper all our most secret secrets to any stranger who took the time to listen.

Now I will sit and write. Not for you to hear, or me to tell. But for me to write. The way I once did. To let out all that I am incapable of communicating to any person. It’s strange the fears that stiffen my fingers. The fraternal twins of rejection and apathy. How I can simultaneously believe that no one will read, and that I will still be rejected. Perhaps I fear those closest to me.

To those who believe they know you best, you can confess nothing. We stand before one another and stare into the distance, afraid of what we might see in each others eyes.

Just moments ago I felt the weight of self accusation. I made a list and frowned at my shortcomings. I sought some names to blame. To put faces to my guilt. I thought I would sit and write some confessions. Come clean. The way I used to when my heart was heavy. But I don’t feel it anymore. I went to the corner store to buy a cathartic pack of smokes and met the smile of a stranger. It said, “hello friend, I’m glad you came by.” And like that, the weight was gone. A haze lifted by a gentle breeze.

There are so many things I wish to write. But now the voice is gone.

I wanted to write about... something.

I met a boy the other day. He was about my age. In college. He said his dream was to be a director. I asked him what his major was. He said “Salary man.” I said, What? Your major is salary man?! What about your dream? He said, “That was just a dream. That was when I was a kid.” For that, I punched him in the arm.

I met a girl the other day and I wanted her to love me. She sent me a text message saying that she could not. I asked if I could see her tomorrow and she said that she could not. So I grabbed her hand and kissed her that night. She slapped me for that. And it was alright.

I don’t want to go to work. I don’t want to be so busy. I don’t want to know what I’m going to do tomorrow and the next day and the next day. It’s so sterilizing. It’s so numbing. I feel so little real emotion these days. And when I do it’s fleeting. I get up go to work come home go to bed. And repeat. I don’t want to stand in front of a dozen kids and do my best good-role-model impersonation. Yet I cannot help but feel responsible in front of those miniature eyes. I wonder how long it takes before your voice is forever changed.

I’m not a teacher, but I play one on the weekdays.

I want to read something challenging. I want to watch something controversial. I want to ponder life and it’s purpose. But I don’t have the time.

So I’ll just lie on the floor and pour music into my ears. Escape into a sonic wonderland for a few brief minutes and drift off into tomorrow.