It is five AM and I’m awake. Been that way since three AM. What am I doing? Thinking. Thinking about “stuff”. I guess that is the best way to say it. Sitting here thinking about stuff. What kind of stuff you might ask? Just stuff.
I’m thinking about wondering what the dog is thinking while laying here asleep with her eyes twitching beneath the lids and her feet swishing as though she were running. I am thinking about the people I know who are lonely, afraid, lost, and those who aren’t. I’m thinking about past experiences in life and wishing I could go back and undo “stuff” or relive it again.
I’m thinking about my poetry and wondering if it is any good or is it just my own stupid ego thinking I’m good at writing. I doubt myself constantly. It is never good enough. I’m never satisfied. It is like cooking an expensive steak and then finding you’ve burned the damn thing. My novel is being reviewed by friends. Edited by them. Is it any good?
What am I doing sitting here at five AM? Damn if I know. Maybe I’ll write a poem. A poem about what? Oh, I could write a lot of poems and I could shock a lot of people. But, is it worth it? Would the poem matter? Would it be any good, or, is it just my own ego lying to me. That’s what I’m doing here at five AM, thinking about “stuff”.
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