As Real As I Make It

The stringing together of words feels like breathing to me, like something I've never not done. 

I want the words in my head to fall out of my fingers in a way that makes musical pretty pictures dance behind your eyes.  I want to write in a way that gets discovered in a soda shop and becomes the next starlet.  Writing an everyday blog doesn't always inspire that kind of "ready for my closeup" thinking but it's there.  I feel it.  Fumbling at the snooze button.  five more minutes.


The F and the J on my keyboard are worn completely smooth.  There's a spot on the spacebar I doubt is as solid as it should be.  The hinge on my laptop is broken from so many openings and closings.  It only stays open now.  I should send it away for repairs but I don't think I could live 10 business days without the internet.  The facebook.  The twitter.  The blog.  I would have to write anyway.  I'd spill the ink out of a case of pens in the meantime writing things I'd lose the courage to post.  Second guessing the thoughts in my head as useless bits of fluff not worthy of human consumption.

My sister would think thankgod and smugly repeat something she likes to say about how those people online aren't outside my door.  They're not real.  Which stings like a slap when I hear it and isn't even true.  Because even if I hadn't met some of them in person, perception is reality.  so there. 

See, I'm in the middle of a painting project.  Painting projects always represent transition for me.  I just don't know what I'm transitioning to.   

I think I need to try submitting an article somewhere.  just to see.