Where will I be?
Will I still be doing this when I am thirty?
When I am turning old and starting to fade, and the grey light is starting to shine on my summer days - will I still have the gift of words? Will I still know what to say? Will I still wonder about what life will bring tomorrow...Or will I just turn into every other American in their mid-age? Will I just talk about kids and carpet-spots and the frustrations I've faced at the shopping mart? Will I just clean up bathrooms and straighten up livingrooms and dust all my figurines - and will I stop being who I am to be middle-age?
Will I ever calm down and stop being what I am on the inside, because its just a kiddyish thing to do? Will I stop coming up with prose-poems and with images that shock the mind back awake. And will I be just another house wife one day with a job and a hobby on the side?
What will I do, when I'm grey and if the money runs out? Or what will I say if my kids come back home in despair? Will I still write about it? Will I know more - and write more about it? Will I see the world just to put it down with pen and pad, scrawling all my heart out like I always have done? Or will my voice fade with my body. Will my mind dwindle with my strength. Will my words come less quickly as my physical form begins to slow?
Where will I be when I am fifty?
Will the thriving spirit, traveling from near and far within the space of seconds slow? Will the mind that finds characters from other worlds, and meets them on the roads to sleep stop traveling so far? Will I find myself confined to my room and to my walls, without the voices there that have always comforted me? Will I become every other middle-aged American that forgets what they love in search of a job and the perfect family?
Will I, in spite of everything I am now, simmer down and become the old "Leave It To Beaver" mom with a pearl necklace and a checkered dress?
I don't even like checkered dresses. But, maybe one day I'll decide I do. And maybe one day I'll wear an apron and wipe my hands on it and smile at the muddy children as they come into the house. Maybe I will be average, middle-class America. Maybe I will be "Leave It To Beaver". Maybe I will just be another "house wife".
But I don't want to be. I don't want to stop talking about Europe, and I don't want to stop seeing other worlds and meeting other peoples that don't exist anywhere but in my mind. I don't want to simmer down. I don't want to "grow up", if that is what growing up means. I don't want to be tame, or average, or middle-class America.
I want to be like I am now - as crazy and wacked and ridiculous as I am now. I want to be able to act drunk even though I don't drink. And I want to be able to be loud and laugh 'til my stomach hurts and roll on the floor in a wrestling match. I want to see worlds beyond mine and find out why the people there are glad or sad...or missing.
I want to always read. I want to always discover. I want to always travel here, there, and anywhere.
I don't want life to tame me or dumb me down.
I don't want a family that will put an apron on me and a white picket fence around my heart and a pearl chain around my dreams.
I don't want a life that will tie me down and make me exist like the rest of the world. I want to write poetry in coffee shops and narratives from vespas in Italy and novels from porches in West Virgina, sipping cool lemonade on a warm summer evening.
I want to walk the seashore, and gather shells, and sing to myself all the songs that come into my mind. I want to walk along piers, collecting silly stuffed animals from silly games that you always waste your money on for the sake of bright lights and excitement. I want to go to fairs and eat cotton candy and hot dogs on a stick. I want to swim in the ocean when its cold on a summer day, the waves kissing my feet like tendrils of ice. I want to dance in the middle of my master-bedroom with the blinds open and the moon streaming in. I want to lie under starry skies in Flagstaff, in the back of a truck, halfway between here and somewhere else. I want to ride roller-coasters and find roller-coaster riding kids in my dreams - and meet them all.
I want to sip Pina Coladas on Mexican beaches and play poker in the comfort of a living room with a fire burning in the other room's fireplace. I want sheepskin rugs and hardwood floors and tiles made of marble that get too cold to walk over in the winter. I want snow on the sidewalk and chestnuts on an open fire. Long walks along country roads and lazy strolls through parks or gardens. Shatter in Times Square or Picadilly Circus and seeing animals on a safari somewhere in Africa.
I want to see the world, but I want to see it as myself. I don't want to be calmed down. I don't want to be average. I don't want to be what everyone else wants to be. I don't want a white picket fence or a plastic playground in the front yard. I want a beachside getaway and hotels with fresh linen and morning breakfast of fruit and yougert and bread. I want a care-free life lived with the same passions I have now. The same light in my eyes, the same fervor for the same things I have now.
I don't want my blood to change, or run cold in my veins. I don't want to wear aprons with pearls or live a common life, baking cookies and living out my days. I don't want to pass from life into a title and a job. I don't want to be a home-owner in a home-owner's association and a number on a bill. I don't want to just grow up and let the grey light take over the dreams I have now. I don't want my mind to grow stagnant and the imagination to fade - and all the friends I have found within it. I don't want to lose the lives I've found in creating.
And I pray that when I'm thirty, I am still here - writing like I am now.
And I pray that when I'm fifty - I am still here, thinking like I am now, dreaming like I am now, creating like I am now.
I hope to never let the light fade, despite my intrigue with the night. I hope to never let the romance fade from me or the post-modern spirit, that I've turned into something else, become just another memory. I never want to be less than I am now, and I hope that age only makes me more...
More of the me that I am. Not more of the me that society things I ought to one day want to be.
-RK
When I am turning old and starting to fade, and the grey light is starting to shine on my summer days - will I still have the gift of words? Will I still know what to say? Will I still wonder about what life will bring tomorrow...Or will I just turn into every other American in their mid-age? Will I just talk about kids and carpet-spots and the frustrations I've faced at the shopping mart? Will I just clean up bathrooms and straighten up livingrooms and dust all my figurines - and will I stop being who I am to be middle-age?
Will I ever calm down and stop being what I am on the inside, because its just a kiddyish thing to do? Will I stop coming up with prose-poems and with images that shock the mind back awake. And will I be just another house wife one day with a job and a hobby on the side?
What will I do, when I'm grey and if the money runs out? Or what will I say if my kids come back home in despair? Will I still write about it? Will I know more - and write more about it? Will I see the world just to put it down with pen and pad, scrawling all my heart out like I always have done? Or will my voice fade with my body. Will my mind dwindle with my strength. Will my words come less quickly as my physical form begins to slow?
Where will I be when I am fifty?
Will the thriving spirit, traveling from near and far within the space of seconds slow? Will the mind that finds characters from other worlds, and meets them on the roads to sleep stop traveling so far? Will I find myself confined to my room and to my walls, without the voices there that have always comforted me? Will I become every other middle-aged American that forgets what they love in search of a job and the perfect family?
Will I, in spite of everything I am now, simmer down and become the old "Leave It To Beaver" mom with a pearl necklace and a checkered dress?
I don't even like checkered dresses. But, maybe one day I'll decide I do. And maybe one day I'll wear an apron and wipe my hands on it and smile at the muddy children as they come into the house. Maybe I will be average, middle-class America. Maybe I will be "Leave It To Beaver". Maybe I will just be another "house wife".
But I don't want to be. I don't want to stop talking about Europe, and I don't want to stop seeing other worlds and meeting other peoples that don't exist anywhere but in my mind. I don't want to simmer down. I don't want to "grow up", if that is what growing up means. I don't want to be tame, or average, or middle-class America.
I want to be like I am now - as crazy and wacked and ridiculous as I am now. I want to be able to act drunk even though I don't drink. And I want to be able to be loud and laugh 'til my stomach hurts and roll on the floor in a wrestling match. I want to see worlds beyond mine and find out why the people there are glad or sad...or missing.
I want to always read. I want to always discover. I want to always travel here, there, and anywhere.
I don't want life to tame me or dumb me down.
I don't want a family that will put an apron on me and a white picket fence around my heart and a pearl chain around my dreams.
I don't want a life that will tie me down and make me exist like the rest of the world. I want to write poetry in coffee shops and narratives from vespas in Italy and novels from porches in West Virgina, sipping cool lemonade on a warm summer evening.
I want to walk the seashore, and gather shells, and sing to myself all the songs that come into my mind. I want to walk along piers, collecting silly stuffed animals from silly games that you always waste your money on for the sake of bright lights and excitement. I want to go to fairs and eat cotton candy and hot dogs on a stick. I want to swim in the ocean when its cold on a summer day, the waves kissing my feet like tendrils of ice. I want to dance in the middle of my master-bedroom with the blinds open and the moon streaming in. I want to lie under starry skies in Flagstaff, in the back of a truck, halfway between here and somewhere else. I want to ride roller-coasters and find roller-coaster riding kids in my dreams - and meet them all.
I want to sip Pina Coladas on Mexican beaches and play poker in the comfort of a living room with a fire burning in the other room's fireplace. I want sheepskin rugs and hardwood floors and tiles made of marble that get too cold to walk over in the winter. I want snow on the sidewalk and chestnuts on an open fire. Long walks along country roads and lazy strolls through parks or gardens. Shatter in Times Square or Picadilly Circus and seeing animals on a safari somewhere in Africa.
I want to see the world, but I want to see it as myself. I don't want to be calmed down. I don't want to be average. I don't want to be what everyone else wants to be. I don't want a white picket fence or a plastic playground in the front yard. I want a beachside getaway and hotels with fresh linen and morning breakfast of fruit and yougert and bread. I want a care-free life lived with the same passions I have now. The same light in my eyes, the same fervor for the same things I have now.
I don't want my blood to change, or run cold in my veins. I don't want to wear aprons with pearls or live a common life, baking cookies and living out my days. I don't want to pass from life into a title and a job. I don't want to be a home-owner in a home-owner's association and a number on a bill. I don't want to just grow up and let the grey light take over the dreams I have now. I don't want my mind to grow stagnant and the imagination to fade - and all the friends I have found within it. I don't want to lose the lives I've found in creating.
And I pray that when I'm thirty, I am still here - writing like I am now.
And I pray that when I'm fifty - I am still here, thinking like I am now, dreaming like I am now, creating like I am now.
I hope to never let the light fade, despite my intrigue with the night. I hope to never let the romance fade from me or the post-modern spirit, that I've turned into something else, become just another memory. I never want to be less than I am now, and I hope that age only makes me more...
More of the me that I am. Not more of the me that society things I ought to one day want to be.
-RK
2 Thought(s):
Sounds like a 'Wounderful life'. Just remember that times they are a changing, and that you don't usually end up where you first intended.
The key is adapting to change, goin with the flow.
This comment is incredibly ironic, because without knowing - I just wrote a post on how I need change. Strange, isn't it?
Post a Comment
<< Home