Crowding in America

Everything here is so crowded with options and abundance, it seems to make the air thicker and harder to breathe. One has no trouble breathing on an empty meadow high up in the mountains. Here my three blankets are pilled up like mattresses, like the clothes in the corner, which I hardly wear, like the books on the shelf, all four of them just started, like all the objects and colors on the wall, like the electronics, four types of screens lined up on the desk.

My head screams. I imagine a room like that of a cell or a monastery, empty beyond a single bed. Empty so there’s room for my thoughts to enter it too.

Lying on the symbols of comfort, surrounded by bright and colorful lights, flowers, words, and decor, shoppes with my every undiscovered want, times a thousand. Choice, choice, and more choice. I become so distracted that it takes driving on the same old gray road that I’ve been driving every day for two years (if I manage to convince myself to turn off the radio), to be truly alone. Thoughts flow while I try not to crash, but a quietness permeates the air like nowhere else in the cities of the country, as I have no choice then but to hear my naked thoughts.

But the ride ends so soon, and I walk into places screaming, More! More! Think this! More TV! Eat! But what? Oh the time it takes to decide.

I watched a man say recently, how America never developed its own kitchen, as around the world all great cooking has been born out of limited options, and making the best of those possibilities. Although grateful tor the obvious, my mind starves for the limitations, like being stuck with a sheet of blank paper in a boring class, that enable me to truly be.


“I don’t feel, but I do think”

I don’t feel,
But I do think,
And thinking can be a terrible emotion.
After time and love have passed,
Though betrays still a devotion.

Why it’s taking me this long,
To forget your fingertips or the fact that you exist,
I cannot explain.
I don’t feel,
But I do think,
And it drives me quite insane.
Insane to know that for some reason,
You’re still messing with my brain.

Nights, maps, songs,
Rain, postcards, telephones
Command my thoughts to go to you.
I tell them,
I don’t feel,
But I do think.
And they laugh,
Because there is no such thing.