Cicadas
cicadas are back, am I ready for this time of year? I am wondering how long I will be monitored by the state, how much more of my life an interest of our county. I am wondering too, what time will it be whne it runs out for my family; the time it will be that I am in fact relieved of the roles that hinder my excellence, when I will excel beyond the roles I am seen for. I wonder this along with everyone else on trial. Wondering how to erase time, how to level the playing field, and how to capitalize and exploit it all at once. The path is a razors edge, difficult to traverse.
I am called a plagerist, by someone who hasn't read my writing before, and thinks it's anothers. Still, it feels unjust for some reason. By definition, she is correct, he is, the friend, yet I am inseperable as I wrote for him, and did so as the foolish friend. I wonder what path will I take to lead me to better friends, better people, who exploit life's grander themes, life's grander schemes. Or lesser, as the case may be in my chosen words, my chosen alliances, my reactions to lonliness.
And a year now has brought me to the point of knowing that life is passing us by, as I am home alone this weekend. I call and wait for company, and have none. The calls are telemarketers, and I play on the telephone with them. Sad, I think now. I read a little on the Upanishads, watch a little television, and take a call from the same friend who stole my language, my work, and used it for his business school assignment. Something to wail about, that may be why I agreed to it; speculated the return and did it to whine about the injustice. While waiting home alone for someone to make some sense for me, to lose it with me, to let me loose, and to benefit from life's delicacies with me; a company to lose sanity, and tumble with, to fall upwards with...
It's hot and I'm sweating a little. I still haven't showered today, somehow still feel clean, even as I masturbated earlier today to programming on television; I don't remember what. I still don't know if I am ready to build my garden for the year, if I've decided what I'll grow. I see the buds blooming on the trees, the warmth and dewy days are here, and the cicadas are chirping these nights, the last two. I have to go. The friend is here.
I am called a plagerist, by someone who hasn't read my writing before, and thinks it's anothers. Still, it feels unjust for some reason. By definition, she is correct, he is, the friend, yet I am inseperable as I wrote for him, and did so as the foolish friend. I wonder what path will I take to lead me to better friends, better people, who exploit life's grander themes, life's grander schemes. Or lesser, as the case may be in my chosen words, my chosen alliances, my reactions to lonliness.
And a year now has brought me to the point of knowing that life is passing us by, as I am home alone this weekend. I call and wait for company, and have none. The calls are telemarketers, and I play on the telephone with them. Sad, I think now. I read a little on the Upanishads, watch a little television, and take a call from the same friend who stole my language, my work, and used it for his business school assignment. Something to wail about, that may be why I agreed to it; speculated the return and did it to whine about the injustice. While waiting home alone for someone to make some sense for me, to lose it with me, to let me loose, and to benefit from life's delicacies with me; a company to lose sanity, and tumble with, to fall upwards with...
It's hot and I'm sweating a little. I still haven't showered today, somehow still feel clean, even as I masturbated earlier today to programming on television; I don't remember what. I still don't know if I am ready to build my garden for the year, if I've decided what I'll grow. I see the buds blooming on the trees, the warmth and dewy days are here, and the cicadas are chirping these nights, the last two. I have to go. The friend is here.
posted by author | 5:13 PM
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