my writing has been failing to catch up with my thoughts.
i’m frantically racing on a conveyer belt moving too fast, pounding on non-musical keys, packaging each moment into pixel squiggles, fearing the day they'll pass by without a trace.
i'm finally understanding history as served through poems, critiques previously plated as tv and entertainment.
i used to be afraid to break character but now i crave only the most intense of feelings.
i collect fear in horror, sadness in tragedy, pain and joy in comedy as tinder. set them off alone in an empty movie theater, faraway hotel room, empty house. find every excuse to let the emotions run awry, burn with their passion. let their ashes make up moments. moments a life.
a life of pre-set menu items and rotating chef’s specials.
i have a front row seat to order specials, sample dishes others longed to try.
i must taste it well, cherish this omakase of experiences. savor every bite, chew a little longer.
all the different aromas, sweet and savory and sour, scribble it down before it fades. let everyone taste it through me. post a picture, write a substack piece, edit a vlog. hope others will be able to try it too one day. but it will never taste the same again. no matter how vivid i paint the taste, it can only be tasted an infinite number of ways by an infinite number of people.