November 14, 2005
I'm sitting in the middle of Union Square. I think I just finished my journal to Robert. I hope it does the rest of the letter justice. I don't know maybe I will add more later. This young kid in a green shirt just sat next to me, he started water coloring. Water coloring. Like nothing. So I felt inspired to start writing again. Not even the Asian guy in black lighting match after match and blowing one out and letting them drop to the ground in some sort of silent protest, I'm guessing for how many soldiers have died in the war, inspired me. But what is the difference? Now I am writing and the sad thing is I feel that if I don't write to Robert or about him I might not be able to continue. Is this what my writing has come to? A fore lorn man who only wants to reunite with his lost love? Blah blah blah. I refuse to let that happen. What else can I write about? Matches lit, blown out, dropped to the ground and I sit here staining with ink my own feeble attempt at meaning, something, and the twink to my right paints with water and confirms meetings with his mother and the baby girl in pin stripped pants and red hoody runs around Union Square, excited, curious, honest like I used to be. The Indian couple to my left reminisces of times only as old as yesterday and with ahs and oohs relive what the digital camera says they don't have to use their minds or hearts to remember. And people crowd around wondering what the matches mean and still the Asian man in black lights, blows and drops and they all know better than me his quest despite the fact that I have watched him the longest. And my ass is sore, my stomach hurts and my fingers are callus with a lust for music and creativity. But still I wont get up to see what the matches burn for or burn out for. And now I draw.