Is not the self something that is partially defined by place, partially defined by age, partially defined by circumstances, partially defined by the soul, the mind, the will? What, says the unborn, shall I make of myself? What, says the mother, shall I make of my child? What, says God, shall I make of my people?
What says the teenager, shall I make of my life, my today, my future, my talents? Sometimes it is just one word, just one step at a time.
my socks never match, i like books,i like fashion, i love coffee, i like to write, my banana-seat bike is named after a dinosaur, i am very pale, i'm allergic to just about everything, last night i dreampt that i had a pet mosquito that was all mine and would wrap it's little leggies around my pinkie finger, i've lived in many places, my favorite color is grey, i can never eat just one wheat thin-it has to be the whole box.
3 comments:
angsty is ok. Your angst is beautiful.
Wish your posts were dated.
I can't touch you through this venue, only respond to written words. I linger on every one, every word, every twist of every syllable.
Your words drip slowly, like rich honey.
Is not the self something that is partially defined by place, partially defined by age, partially defined by circumstances, partially defined by the soul, the mind, the will? What, says the unborn, shall I make of myself? What, says the mother, shall I make of my child? What, says God, shall I make of my people?
What says the teenager, shall I make of my life, my today, my future, my talents? Sometimes it is just one word, just one step at a time.
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