May 1, 2011

  • Switching person, perspective

    I want to write about softer things. Not sad things, not angry things--soft things. Soft things like the drooping tulips in my kitchen--drooping but not dying. Maybe reaching more than anything. Exploding.

    The air travels through me when I run sometimes. There's a point when my rhythm is right and my breathing is right and the air just runs through me. Strange and natural, this breath. It's not forced but it's not soft. It is simply how the air travels (and air is not soft). The air goes through my lungs and right out through my back, from between my shoulder blades. People tell you that you should breathe in through your nose and out through your mouth but the truth of the matter is, when you do it right, it's in through your mouth and then right out your spine. You slip through the air and it slips through you. Much better than all that stumbling you and the air are used to doing with each other. Much better than all that racket with panting and talking and cigarettes. This is just the wind. You are just the wind.

    I cannot write stories so I write snapshots. I will not be a writer, everyone. I will not be a writer.