Waiting for Winter

Sippin on some green fire, thinking about the desperation inherent in much of human interaction. The desperation of seeking to avoid being alone. The desperation of seeking to be accepted. Desperate and passionate and hopeless.
Being alone with oneself is almost taboo in this day and age, without a TV, or at the very least, a radio. Being alone and plummeting to the source of your consciousness without attempting to distract it continuously.
I guess I’m getting older. I’m beginning to enjoy this feeling of loneliness. Because just past the loneliness there is knowledge, and beyond that there is the blessing.
I wait for people to come to me, and if they don’t, well, then I’ve got other things to do. Writing is one of them. Drumming another. Reading. Listening to some dope music. Studying some Spanish. Or just suppin on some good old green fire and speculatin on the bigger picture.
In other words, I think sometimes I can recognize that the world lies within me, waiting to be birthed. Just waiting to be fed and nurtured, just waiting for me to drop my ego and fear and live consciously. Just waiting to give itself to the world outside as soon as I can let it go.


Author: manderson

I live in NYC.

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