Dull
I fear that I have become incredibly dull: a knife that has only learned to cut carrots, a pen that does not get replaced, only its ink replenished, a piece of paper balled up and thrown away, a word only repeated to deaf ears that would rather not acknowledge its sanctity. I have become a husk of a person. I have become an empty vessel of human emotion. This is what becomes of a person when all they have to turn to to feed their mind is a screen flashing images, showing people how to react, an ongoing assortment of empty media. I wish to spend my days in the bosom of the Earth, admiring all she has to offer. I wish to swim in her lakes, sit on her shores, blow her dandelions, feel her grass beneath my body and fingertips, feel her rain on my face, and breathe in burning humidity from her everleasting body. I wish my life could be spent in the trees of her soul. If life didn’t ask so much of our labor, I would be in the Earth's core rummaging around for the parts we cannot see in the 9-5 workdays. Unfortunately, though, in this economy, I cannot spend my life as a writer or focus on painting my way through the world, spending every waking moment trying to express every part of my being, so subsequently, I will spend my days as a working man. I will become “The other woman” of my own life, constantly trying to achieve what looks like everything I want to become. Taking on the persona of the woman who has it.
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