sometimes...

I'm sure that this is falling apart. I'm ready to be finished-- out of spite, because of distance, or simply in reaction to some feeling brewing somewhere between my ribs and spine. Pervasive.

It's a struggle-- which option comes first? It's like when Ginsberg wrote about the mother he hardly knew, that's how I feel. Which ones in what combination-- education, marriage, nervous breakdown, learning to be mad. When I said I could end up anywhere I meant it.

Half of me resists trying. How easy is it to 'go with the flow'. Who's dictating what? You throw away things that I would save in a box under my bed. It can't be a girl thing.

I can wait, as long as nothing better comes along.

I'm ready to finish, or begin, depending on how you look at it.