12/18

Someone said to write.  It may have been me.  I may have told myself to do these things.

Someone said to write.

And here I am.  Pulling words from the depths of my existence and arranging them in a fashion that ideally pleases me.  That'll calm my rattled consciousness.  My uneasy waking hours.

So I stand, leaning against a dilapidated trash can in a café on the Johns Hopkins undergraduate university.  Sad acoustic tunes seep from the speaker seated atop cubbies of flavored sugar.  They sing to me alone. 

And there's a reflection of myself in the window.  A slouched figure.  A bearded contemplative mess.  A mound of ruin dressed in black, punching at the keys displayed on the screen of his cell phone so urgently he looks as though he may flatten out before his thumbs finish the sentence.

And through these cloudy morning hours, as I watch and listen and think and punch at these keys, I can only hope, only pray, that somewhere along the way I've succeeded.  

I hope I've succeeded.