I often reminisce about when I was 17 and had just moved to Salt Lake City after high school. With eagerness and a feeling of freedom, I possessed an inner passion and curiosity. After my miles walk home from work I'd put on a cd in my lip shaped stereo and climb out on to the fire escape and smoke a cigarette. Mornings I'd climb to the roof and write. Nights I'd draw concepts for graffiti art and practice on my sister and I's apartment walls. Teach myself piano in the day room at the residential home I worked at. I'd walk the extra miles for belly dance classes, freestyling as I went. During walks I'd read poetry books out loud to myself. I'd spend evenings chatting with strangers. I'd blow most of my paycheck on CDs and paint. I'd go outside just to take pictures. I wasn't concerned about who I should be or what I should be doing, I was lost in discovering my inner world. When I reflect on that time there is a lot of color, paced at my own individual beat.
Somewhere I decided that the way I want to do things is unreasonable and wrong. Military and religion took me on a new road and seemed to reinforce this notion. Although I've separated from the fore mentioned, they still seem to remain in my blood.
**Writing has lost its luster, the process feels clumsy and repetitive. Lacking freshness. I'm forever questioning the worth and the organic essence of what I was originally trying to articulate, evaporates. I overuse commas. I'm not longer writing for myself**
I've decided to not take a computer with me on the road. I'm searching to connect back with myself, silence, and the heartbeat of time. I'll visit computer labs when I'm called.
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