i’m reading perspectives from men older than me, men who have died, and women who write poetry like poetry is meant to be written.
i’m going out a lot more, to venues i wouldn’t have gone before. i’m taking long strolls in the park, i’m dancing at concerts, i’m drinking in pubs, and i’m writing in cafes. i’m doing all the cliched things i’m meant to, and then i’m talking to people who stand next to me in the subway.
i’m listening to Rita Ora, Smashing Pumpkins, Lana Del Rey. i’m listening to One Direction, Justin Bieber, Cher Lloyd. i’m listening to Led Zeppelin, Maroon 5, Allison Crowe. i’m listening to Tom Waits, Dr. John, Mumford & Sons. i’m listening to the sound of silence, the slap of flip flops on pavement, the swoosh of grass growing. i’m listening to the voices of random strangers, the poetry of God, the abstract art of heartbreak and the chimes of new love.
i’m taking pictures with my phone and putting them on instagram. i’m tweeting snapshots of my day and sending them into the universe. i’m keeping memories in my head in a box stamped ‘one day, for my daughter’, and all the things that i will tell her.
i’m writing a lot. i’m writing to see if i can write.
i’m expanding my universe, to fill up all the empty with the things i’m meant to do, with the experiences i want to have, and the way i thought i should live. i’m doing the things i don’t want to do, and the things i do. i’m lazing in bed at 5am listening to the chirp of birds and the ringing of my alarm. i’m drinking beer on my balcony trying to memorize the differences between lambic and pale ale.
i’m going out there, and i’m living, finally. and i hope that when you read this, you’ll be happy for me, because i know you.
i know you worry.