Anything new?

Creation. Creation. Creation.

Doing something different when otherwise I would remain the same. The difficulty of difference, the salaciousness of my sameness. Whom does this need to appease? No one, not even myself. Hopefully not myself. Falling in love with yourself is the worst love. An Ouroboros. A infinite, ever-repeating loop. Horrid.

Give me a template:

He cried. 

He cried a million tears today, and he could not tell you why. No words came into his mind today, only the flicker of her fire, the warmth of her ember, the tautness of her embrace and a smiling face that could wipe away the stains of strains of yesterday.

Overly poetic much - what is my tone? What is my voice? When you feel you create and re-create yourself continually, it's hard to know what is you and not-you. Let me tell you, or rather, let you (me) tell me (you), what not-you is to me. I've tied myself in knots here. The issue: I originally said you, when I meant me. Let me rephrase: When I feel I create and re-create myself continually, it's hard to know what is me and not-me (more intelligible now). Let me, now, tell you what I feel is not-me:

Drinking scotch. Liking tomatoes in a burger. Living in a big city. Being vague. Speaking dishonestly. Downloading TikTok. Gifting people money for their birthday or Christmas. Wanting to dominate, or be dominated, in conversation. Impermeability. 

I can't think of these easily. Me is likely harder, and I won't even try for now. But an interesting feeling was stirred up when I was pondering what is not-me. I felt like, in my childhood, I was told I could do anything, be anybody, go anywhere. Fly even. This exuberance for life, fostered in me. But, simultaneously, I was not presented with engagements of which I could decide whether I liked or disliked. I was not honed in, focused upon, select things. Or at least, not in number enough for what I needed. Swimming, softball, skating, school, music (very early on, but not carried through). I don't have skills, I don't think - even now. Yes, I can write decently, I can speak OK, but only because I am aware of it. Only because I have intentionally grown this piece of me. And no one else would do it, no one else did do it. I have endured the privation of activities which ought be afforded a young body and mind.

God, I wish I could play piano. I so want to release myself dancing. But here we go again, the same rub - the desires and dreams. Just do it already. You can waste your life - you're doing a good job at that - or you can actually live sometime. Maybe sometime soon? Broken record, scratched CD, faulty vinyl. Hurry up and go do something. For once in your life, do something. Anything. Just put your intention into it. Your heart, or whatever. Do something different, intentionally and passionately, and do it now.