chew

What odd things do you do when nobody is around? I have lost count of how many odd things I do, but just now I chewed off a dead piece of skin on my hand and continued to chew on it until I realized that was pretty gross. I would be better off eating a sandwich, not skin. We'd all be better off.

I want to be a nicer person. I want to visit ethnic markets and buy foods I don't understand. I want to write without first staring at a blank screen for several torturous minutes. I want to wander around lost in San Francisco again, but maybe this time with someone else, maybe this time we'll buy the crab on the pier that looked so good and off limits. I want to be on limits, which means I want to be unlimited. I want to roam. I want to settle. I want to never be in between because my entire life thus far feels in between, almost, not quite, waiting, waiting. I want to make peace with the wait and maybe embrace it on occasion instead of reacting out of fear. I want to respond. I want to listen. I want others to listen to me as well. I want to be a well that doesn't run dry, that might even have a secret door at the bottom which leads one into some enchanted land populated with the ghosts of our past and cats who never die. I want to forget all of my routines and schedules and rules and demands and start fresh, start over, start out on top instead of under, under water in a well with no rope or ladder or even that secret door. I want to dry off and put my feet up. I want to relax. I want to rest. I want the rest of what I deny myself over and over and over. I want to use words to connect as well as push them aside in order to connect without the crutch of language. I want to feel and taste and see what I shield myself from on a day-to-day basis. I want a base. I want to run, or crawl, to a place that's as essential as my own bones. I want a home.

No more chewing my own skin. Got it.