Everyone’s writing about nature, it seems, but not me. I like it fine, it’s just that the outside is where I go to be empty. to walk the thoughts out, feel the sun and all. I know a few plants by name, greet them, sure. But don’t feel enough by them to write it. Where I am is the city fog, three smokestacks slightly obscured by the low morning clouds. I think their details perfect in their absence.
my memory is mostly shot, which is why i turn to the journal to write, missing pieces can be made up or smoked out. lists upon lists upon lists on the desk so I don’t forget. Maybe if I let Bowsprit take control more often, he’s better at that sort of stuff than I am. Easier to let go and focus when you’re as fatalistic as he is. maybe the reason I’ve become so insistent that there is no plan, no self, is all my instincts towards purpose went to him when he became himself. maybe we’ve both become polarized versions of our selves. maybe that’s what’s best, or just what is.
