I want to dye my hair purple.
I think I'm wasting too much time. If there was a countdown for one's youth, in the form of a ticking clock, it'd be strapped to my back and I'd be flattened by its weight.
It's like time has been broken into "manageable pieces"; hours, days, weeks, months, but why is it that hours pass like days and days pass like months and the months pass like seconds?
And the years are trickling through the gaps in your fingers.
I want to play music and short-circuit the speakers.
Would you believe I have a book of Emerson's poetry on top of my amp? I like that kind of thing. Juxtapositions.
Next to that, sketchbooks filled with drawings of smoke and profiles, and profiles smoking.
This room is filled with me. The black guitar by the mirror. The chrysanthemum tea cans in a line. The band tshirts folded in perfect stacks.
I know every inch of this place, every contour of every item.
I want more books. I'll stack them on my amp.
I don't know what I'm doing.
I'm wasting the hours, days, weeks, months. I don't want to ask. I can't handle advice. Times like these, I "look like an only child" don't I?
I'm too stubborn. Won't listen. Don't waste time learning that, learn this. Become an architect. Become a banker. Should be like her. Should be like me. Should learn some philosophy.
Oh how the irony in that last part burns.
I want to run away most nights.
I wish I had wings, but a plane ticket will do. I'd pack just one bag and bring my guitar, like those ridiculous teenage movies. I'll climb out a window (and break my neck), making it to the airport just as my gate closes.
I'd like to migrate like the birds but escape summer entirely. I'll circle the globe clock-wise and go to Zurich on a whim. I don't want to be an architect. Or a banker. Maybe one day I'll learn to whistle.
I'm afraid I'll forget what it's like to be young.
So I write lines every day to remember each hour, day, week, month.
Maybe I should take photos.
I don't want to grow up.