Tonight I was calling people, trying to see if anything was going on, when I realized I had almost come to the turnoff for my house. I pulled off, quite inconveniently, to a local elementary school, where I sat in the parking lot with my radio and interior lights on. I pulled my sketchbook from my bag and began to draw. Being that I am not very good with drawing still-life objects, and the visible objects in my car did not appeal to me, I sort of scribbled around, finally deciding I was going to, once again, write the lyrics of the song I was listening to. It's difficult to explain what I feel during these times. Prior to this, I was feeling just a little bit let down, frustrated and definitely out of place. The remedy is not in sight, at least not that I can see.
"Just don't become perpetually cynical."
Is it weird that I don't want to sing unless I believe the words? I don't think so, but the people looking at me might.
I'm happiest with an instrument in my hands, my mouth singing words I do believe and understand. I'm happiest with one eye shut, peering through glass into God knows what. I'm happiest with my legs moving fast, not forward you see, up, up down and around at last. I'm happiest with the ball beneath my feet, the words out of my pen, and my friends around me.
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