Thursday, August 8, 2013

Sitting and Waiting

What the hell am I doing...

That is a good question. A question I really do not understand. What am I doing? Am I actually being productive? Am I making a statement? Am I living? Am I breathing? Is that blood actually pumping through my veins or is lead?

Sometimes I wish I was a robot. I'd be free of all emotion and feeling. I wouldn't have to be so stupid and actually do something right. To be a machine; free from making a mistake because I was built to do something. I want to be the good machine. Get through high school, go to a phenomenal college, get a wonderful writing job and be a world wide known writer and leave a mark.

I guess if I was actually a robot I would be not the best writer; wouldn't be original because my mind would be a man-made-machine. My writing wouldn't get very far. I'd eventually become broke and alone. I guess I wouldn't care much though; I'd be a robot with no emotions; no feelings; no need for human compassion to create a better life in a cold metallic heart.

Why am I rambling about robots and writing? I'm trying to figure myself out. With summer coming to a close and my procrastinator mind racing to get things done before September, its leaving me in a panic. Not an a panic that breaks a sweat, more like a panic that leaves me sitting here, tapping at the IKEA table and trying to contemplate my next move. If I was a robot I'd be collected and have a million different ideas, and come up with three possible moves and am able to pick one with ease. That sounds wonderful but I keep thinking of the consequences of being a robot. With that, the consequences of being a human arrive as well in my tiny pathetic mind. 

I'm a damn senior... I shouldn't be freaking out this much. I made it this far and I still have so much to do. So why am I so anxious to get it all done?

I guess this could be because... 

I'm a young draft in process being watched over by my older self. And I'm so anxious to get done and perfected to be that older self who is writing it, I'm forgetting about quality. I want to be read, but I'm just not ready yet. I want to be typed and on a clean sheet of computer paper ready to be looked at. I'm still on that notebook paper in that messenger bag sitting on a table in a coffee shop or on the floor in a library. I'm still wedged next to 3 different novels and a biography, a bag of pencils, and a cheap thrift store portable coffee mug that has left over morning coffee. That is who I am. And I'm wanting to be perfected with sheer human quality and read across cities, states, nations, continents. I'm sitting and waiting. 

But I guess that's what we all do. We sit anxiously and wait for that one day when we're the story we want to be. Some of us are still waiting; some are already there; some are just beginning. 

I'm still waiting. So I guess I better make my time quality.

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