An idea for spring #1 (late night scribblings)

I am beginning a new idea.
A new thought experiment.
And was curious - If you could see any kind of pattern. Behaviors, maybe.

What is the difference between fiction and non-fiction?

Anyways, it's all really relative.

Is it just our imagination - what is the imagination, is it something that is associated with our innate ability to wander to places in our mind that we don't think are real?

What if those places are real too?

What is the difference? What if our fiction is just a vision of a non-fictitious world we wish to see.

These might be ramblings or just another writing exercise.

But it helps to write. Even if it is just about nothing.

Sometimes no one is home and I have to conjure some activities to be engaged with something, anything.

Or else the mind just wanders.

I am four and a half weeks away from leaving this place and am unsure if this is the right move. I cannot distinguish between what is right and wrong at this time.

And that too is probably untrue. I think I can distinguish it, but by moving forward and learning to live with myself might be the challenge. Seeing how I move around in this world scares me but I am beginning to see that I don't want to live in a state of subliminal fears. Least of all fear of living.

Sure, there will be mistakes. I will lose people. Things may not happen the way I intended. Consequences will be felt. Lessons learned. Growth and appreciation. The wash and drying cycles repeated.

But what happens when you leave the cycle, if you ever do? Will someone accept your cycle? Will you get to a point where you accept your cycle?

Lines on a blank page - full of unanswerable questions. But it feels good to write. At least this part is true.

Despite all the contradictions - there is enough internal space now to where I feel I am out of the storm inside.

Room for creativity.

Room for dignity.

There is a landscape where I can allow all the parts of myself to coexist.

Where fits of anger screaming coincide with tenderness sighing relief. Massive barrels of laughter caressing this ridiculous sadness. Love that makes me cry because it can finally be expressed and find a home.

And I am not going to kick them out of the landscape. No.

I think they are all there for a reason.
And no reason at all.

They are all part of the ever expanding canvas that is life. And I intend to color all around the edges.

As much as I'd like to continue writing pretty poetry, I don't see much time to things I don't fully mean.

I'd much rather be honest. I'd much rather just write for myself. And if it resonates, great.

But if not. That's okay too.

Because honestly (like I was going to be dishonest at this point) - there is not much else left. Sure, you can have an abundance mindset. Sure, there is enough for both of us to do and still left to see in the world. But, working to pay bills and stave off countless deadlines until retirement sounds awfully boring.

I'd much rather write. It is, simply put, the one thing left I know I can commit to.

Whether it is shit writing, or not. Does it really matter? If you have made it this far, then that makes two laughing fools reading scribbles on the digital paper.

Or - perhaps this is like your form of synesthesia. A way of feeling.. understood. One can never be too sure. Nor would I want to be.

I grow tired of trying to convince people, there is too much paranoia surrounding that thought process. Better just to chill. Let things happen.

So here I am, staring at my cat on the kitchen table. Just Vera and I. Vera is licking her paws. Taking care of herself with ease and grace. There is a certain mindfulness that comes with cats.

Maybe I will write about an offhanded conversation that freed two people to actually speak, at a bar in a Italian restaurant in Cambridge. Or the time when I felt the warm embrace of an old man savoring this life inside the confines of a cemetery in Paris. Or playing yahtzee and laughing with my parents in Victoria. Or moments before flying off the road during a storm near Fayetteville. Or finding a new meaning of love in New York. A love of community that revitalized a lost soul. And finally realizing the storm running out of rain.

Anyways, it's all really relative.