leaveyouapen:

#155

Most people live these scripted, horrid lives.  They pretend to like things they don’t care for.  They spend hours in conversation with uninteresting people for the sake of social acceptance. I see people, I mean I literally watch them pick around at the food they just ordered, pick around at the lives they’ve chosen, their thoughts almost audible: “This isn’t what I wanted, but I’m watching my weight.”  ”This isn’t the job I wanted, but it’s too late to start over.” I see them walk around in shoes that hurt their feet for a job that hurts their soul.  They have pretend smiles, pretend lives.  Writing, for me, is my shadow that, whenever I tread too close to this strange, painful settling in my own life, says, “Fuck you, what the fuck are you doing. If your heart’s not racing, if your eyes aren’t wild, if your mouths not salivating, move on.” Writing is, quite simply, what keeps me hungry, barefoot, and wide eyed.  It’s the teeth, the growl of my spirit, and as death roams around in the aching of bones and shyness of wanderlust it passes my soul trembling. No other thing could make a lost child so colossal.