359/365 Free-write w/ Workshoper 8/17/2011

He could see through the thick skin of the wind
could wrap chimes around his fingers.

I swore he conducted the stars.
We were standing on the porch steps once,
in the middle of New York City.
Listening to the bustle of cars,
the suffocation of smog.

He asked me if I could ever called it home,
asked me if he was enough to make a place feel like home.
I told him you can’t make homes out of human beings,
but his voice made me feel cozier then summer comfort.

And that’s when it hit.
What my elders always warned about.
There will be temptations,
test,
beckoning you to diverge from the path you chosen.
The path you said you always wanted for yourself.
The things you swore you’d always do.

I didn’t look him in the eyes for fear they would
swallow me whole,
and that I would never climb out.
Because I knew I had to go.
When life hands you an opportunity,
there will always be the feeling that you will never get better.

You will always get better,
you will always deserve better than this moment.

Then what is the point of life.
Grind mode I guess.
Self improvement,
too bad there is a biological clock.
I would like to have my own kids but I doubt my life is ever going to slow down long enough for me to have them
while my uterus is still down for the cause.

I could adopt.
French, Italian, African.
So I speak to them in their native tongue.
So I can learn their history and teach them their pride.

It’s not gender specific.
And I have no idea where that thought came from.
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