I need to start writing more. When I bleed out my words, putting them to paper and out into the world, it releases me. Unwinds me. Saves me from my own bottled up emotions. Whether the joy of travel and exploration, new people and new sites, or the pains and sufferings of the modern mind and heart that everyone feels, the cathartic effect is complete and undeniable. But I haven’t been doing it. Not nearly like I used to. And I don’t think I really realized I was missing it like this until I read a friend’s own personal piece today. It’s the day of All Hallows’ Eve, and in the milky white sunlight that strikes the Boston pavement and clapboard, a million things are happening. The house of 6 bedrooms echoes with the youthful footfalls of many inhabitants on ancient wooden floorboards, as the house falling apart at the seams is brought joyfully together by a troupe of strangers from all across New England and America. Leftover jungle juice is poured down the drain, and talk of condoms, their absence due to utilization, flits upstairs to me amidst staccato chuckling as I lie in bed and type. The South Carolina Game rolls on as I follow from my phone, thinking of the girl I love who is there now, beautiful and wonderful. Joomahn mops and sweeps somewhere in the house, refusing any help, the penultimate host in more ways than this. My family goes about their Saturday in Virginia, as one set of grandparents likely coast in their old car out in Cali, and another set sails the Pacific somewhere West of Hawaii on an enormous cruise ship. What a web of lives and interconnected people we inhabit. I want to describe each of them in succession, listing where they are and what they are doing in the present moment. Tangible people doing tangible things. How weird, the notion of time. The concept of space. My uncle, likely sitting in his much-wooden home on the Main Line of Philly right now, could have much to say of it no doubt. His PhD in physics would serve him well on such a topic. But of all the tangible things in the world, I want knowledge of the most intangible right now. I want to know where mom is and what she is doing. Does she strum with a harp, looking down from a cloud as I type this? Does her spirit hover over me, a gentle smile on her lips? Does her spirit float in some place far beyond the galaxies which have as of yet no name? I am greedy for life. I want all of it and then some. I want to live so that when I die, I have so many stories to tell mom. I want us to conspire again as of old. Joomahn rushes in, the pub crawl is about to start. The real world, never ceasing as I often do within my own mind to think, calls for me to come and make my mark. On this the 31st of October, 2015, another day of 24 hours is continuing, and I am in the thick of it with good company and newfound friends. I am forging a legendary life with no pomp and ceremony, no pretensions, yet existing at a thrilling pace. “Fuck it, just wear the orange suit.” “I’ll be Lawrence of Arabia.” “Yeah that’ll be good, it will go well with the slutty cats out there.” Conversations abound in the house. The wood makes us all privy as they echo everywhere. It’s time to go, and I’m ready, as always.
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