Sometimes I just wake with a feeling that I know I am a writer. And this feeling stems from something truly, deeply inside of me.
Yesterday I was drunk, like I usually am on friday nights because I am in college and I am a usual American student. And like usual, I was upset. About god knows what, something irrelevant. And I was crying, by myself, embracing in my solitude that I was truly alone, in every sense of the word. I was happy to be alone, to not have someone restricting my tears, but yet, being alone was the very topic I was crying about.
And somehow, I found a comfort. And that comfort stemmed from my spoken poetry. I looked out the window at the stars and the grass that was made up of ten million little blades. Little green blades that believed in all their essence that individually they meant nothing. And that's not really what I thought, that's what I'm thinking now. But I did just talk to myself, I told myself poems and poetry phrases that I just came up with on the spot. And I felt so much better. It just feels so so good for me to articulate my thoughts through a keyboard, to write things down so I know that they are real and they are there and they have happened.
I want to be a writer. all I have ever wanted is to write. It is what I love to do.
Because when I live through a moment, I feel it in a way that a lot of people don't. When I walk outside, i take notice of exactly where the sun is. Because it is really important to me, what position the sun is in when I look up at the sky and notice it. and the exact shade of the sky is very important. Whether it is a deep blue or an azure, or whether it is breathing in the setting sun, inheriting the orange, or the purple of the sunset, or whether it is overtaken by wispy thick white clouds.
I notice when the buds of flowers just begin to peek through the dead branches of trees. I notice when little blue and purple flowers begin to poke their heads gently through the dead gray grass, and I notice the first yellow dandelions and the first buttercups, and I count how many petals are on the first clover I see inhabiting the new grass.
When I see a clover, I picture the cow that wishes to chew it. I picture the spots, and I picture the gentle pink tongue, and I picture how the cow would react if it saw me walking through its field. And all of a sudden, that's where I am, I am walking through the field.

I listened to a new song for the first time a little while ago, and when I closed my eyes and accepted I was in the dark of my college dorm room, my mind allowed me to travel to a tightrope overlooking the grand canyon. and it