My Way

where is this elusive purpose to which we drive ourselves daily, getting by, consuming our chosen poisons? where is this happiness, this contentment, this place of arranged and meaningful things centered about our hearts? is it in the future, in the achievement of degrees, the acquisition of a spouse, the steady flow of money? is it in the present partying, the nights spent drinking and smoking myself to a point bordering oblivion? is it in her eyes, or her eyes, or her eyes? where is my heart? where is my mind . . . fuck my mind, i don’t regret losing that shit. but my heart, my heart . . . it is waiting for something better than anything that flows temporally through the lobes of my contemporary understanding. it is waiting patiently for my death, it is waiting patiently to stop its steady pumping, to reside into silence, to relax into god. so i keep running, and i keep eating, and i keep drinking, and i keep carrying this heavy load of desire on my back every day. until i die, this is my curse, this is my blessing, to be human, to be confused, to be hungry, to be crying shamelessly into the night to be held and loved and known. i can’t be that monk, holding myself away from the world, i can’t be that saint, giving myself to the world, i can’t be anything but myself: and this–this is what i feel. so fuck everything i’ve ever known and read and been told–i’m going out to live and find my own way through this bullshit.

Author: manderson

I live in NYC.

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