I can never sleep before 4 am for too long.

Every few months I convince myself that writing is a whim, its just leisure, just another quirk, a hobby. I seem to forget that I need it to survive, need it to see myself- in the mirror and in the eye. I need to write. Writing is not a multivitamin; it’s a life sustaining pill. 

"Love of My Life" by Freddie mercury is playing in the background. I'm wondering if I'm much too young to stop believing in love already. The air is crisp this time of January and if you dare to step outside, you will feel it slap your face. Sometimes like a disappointed parent, other times playfully like a laughing friend, some days like a drunk husband. Growing up is right around the corner, but it is a blind turn. And the car I'm in has no siren. It’s a hauntingly beautiful life.

I have never quite loved life enough to go out of my way to live, but at the same time never hated it enough to grab the bottle, light the smoke, glide the blade or sniff the coke. So its only fair that I have a fickle relationship with being alive- and staying alive. I don’t know if I quite want it, but since I'm still deciding- I put off the alcoholism and the consequent dementia. “Just a few more years”- I tell myself- then I’ll know whether to pick up the rum or the apple squash. (read that in 7 year old Frank Gallagher's voice)

I have always found it peculiar people resort to artificial intelligence for solace, “How could you lack human love to an extent where a programmed machine needs to come to your rescue?”- I say, as I type into my phone- “how to not envy people who have everything you want while you lick slivers off a spoon?” 

The chatbot starts going off its too-good-to-be-true -“what matters is the inside”- tangent again. “Yes I know. I think I would appreciate you more if you weren’t taking my job away in the next 15 years or so, but who’s to say.” I respond.

I scroll through my 400 contacts long list- there is no one to call- no one to say anything to at all. I used to write letters on a whim- 5 in a row- little bags to put them in. The other day I refrained. Kept the pen and paper back. I will wait for someone to write to me first. There is much to say- but I will let it churn in my stomach, let the centrifuge run. When the clumpy butter of avarice separates- all this pain will turn into poetry. 

Like buttermilk it will flow. 

Picture Credits (Pinterest)