Right, so where then?

It's easy to make a lot of conclusions. Logical, true - but not always ethical, not always emotional. But still, they are easily made nonetheless.

Often - too often, they turn out to be pretty accuate. So here they are, then:

You are a terrible polar bear. If the world were made of white fluffy snow, you wouldn't begin to fit in. But you aren't any good at being a black bear, either. Because if the world were made of piles of black coal, you'd stick out like a sore thumb. Then again, you're a pretty rubbish brown bear too. If everything were suddenly covered in layers of dark chocolate forest terrain, you'd be like an orange in the middle of the stormy ocean.

Come to think of it, maybe you're just a terrible bear.

But I don't have the time to make any more conclusions about what sort of animal you might be good at being. All I know is that you make a terrible polar bear, and you should probably stop that.

It's bad for the ecosystem.

-RK

Something in me really does want to be brilliant. That, I presume, is the egotism.
Something else seems to think that, one day, I may actually achieve it. That, it´s clear, is the pretention.

Don´t pay any of that much mind, though. A few more times like these and a few more failures like this, and I´m sure to get over it. Or, at least I´m sure to begin to ignore it. That´ll help some, don´t you think?

See, because I´d be so much prettier without all this egotistic pretention hanging about in the dark circles under my eyes. And we´d be so much happier without all that assumption, all that expectation, all that weight of all those "little" things we´ve come to believe we owed.

I´m even beginning to think, maybe life would be a little better if it were less cluttered up with all this understanding of things you´ll do and I´ll do and we´ll do someday. And, maybe life would be a little more logical if we just went back to the lobby-at-midnight, cafeteria-eating-table sort of theology, to the you-do-so-I-do sort of philosophy, and to the cinnamon-roll, billard-table, ice-cream-sunday, tuuna kind of romance.

I think it´d make things a hell of a lot less complicated. I wonder if you do too.
Maybe it doesn´t matter as much as it seems it ought to.
Maybe it matters more.

Maybe the altitude and lack of sleep and Peruvian food is beginning to get to me. Not to mention the granola bars that are taking up more room than they´re worth for my measly breakfasts I miss because I´d rather wear soemthing logically appropriate to my current state of mind.

Then again, maybe I just want to come home.

-RK

More from your little green notebook:

[070306]
Sitting in one of my favorite diners for the first time this week, I've gotten to realizing - this is what everyone keeps telling me despair feels like.

Maybe if I think of it as better, or worse than it really is... if I pciture you're just at home now, and tired with at errible headache; or maybe that you've left our 3-dimentional world and I'll see you when I cross-over too... maybe if that was what kept you from my side.

In some odd, intangible way, that makes the weight more bearable somehow.

Or maybe I, like all my great counterparts, am simply clinically unwell.
But maybe, I'm sure, your abscense doesn't help.

How can I complain, though? Sung to sleep, read to until I'm too tired to think. Discussion open to anything, even my weak little frustrations. Then the singe of my fire taken in stride with the ebb and flow of your quiet current. Together steam and smoke, rising like rain and incense - prayers of what you and I want to become.

For now, I petition you to help me - help me be a little less like this, a little more like that. Show me, remind me to be alive instead of existing; to breathe instead of sigh, dream instead of despair, laugh before I cry, love before I fear. Remind me to be more like life, less light fright. Remind me, sometimes, that maybe I can fly instead of running frantic all the time.

I fear that's always where despair comes into play. Vastly incapable of checking myself at the door, longing for the day when you can help keep me checked. Because for all this cardboard-cutout wooden-back-braced form of a girl, I'm terribly weak and frail and lame.

I ought to be more proactive, though; I'll admit it. I ought to be better at addressing problems. Ought to be more aggressive when it comes to me, more laidback when it comes to everyone else.

And I ought to tell you fears and frustratons and my pathetic counter-arguements more readily than I do. You deserve that.

Plus, I don't think you'd mind my four-lettered words much, either.

-RK

We ought to be more mature

Your existence - it's far more real than mine.
With real friends and real things to do with them and real time to have to spend with them.
So maybe that's a problem. Maybe it's not.

And your weekends, far more eventful. Full of playing music and eating at oddball places at 3 in the morning. Full of all the things everyone else had too -- back before we all came back here.
And still I try to do it, sometimes. But then again, I do it on my own.
Maybe that's the disconnect. Or, okay, maybe it's not.

But your life, it's far better than mine.
Without school from 12-9. Or work from 1-5.
Or pretentious projects that span months, quarters, even years. No assumptions you ought to have accomplished things with no real goals in mind.

I wish I were young again.
Then, maybe, life would be a little kinder.
Then again, maybe not.

-Rk