The thing that worries me…what if I run out of stories? What if I run out of things to say? I no longer am interesting, but a trite old machine that just repeats itself? I no longer serve any purpose; I run out of words, everything I say is dust falling from lips that are dry and cracked. Words are my currency; I deal in words. Some people, they prefer yen or Euros or American dollars, but words have the most value to me. Love is a currency I never understood; the exchange rate never made any sense to me, but words, words inspire me to no end. I could sit alone in an empty room for maybe a decade and if I had an ink pen I’d write on the walls, the ceilings if I found a way, the floor, write all these stories that are spilling out of me.
But what if I run out of stories? If they no longer pour out of me & the facts become stale, no one is interested in the stories of a has-been, I start to pour out these tales, and people begin to yawn and look away, embarrassed for me. “Oh, here we go,” they’ll say, “another story.” Even when the stories I tell are of myself or of my past, former friends or lovers who no longer speak my name. “We all know about the ex who had hair like toothbrush bristles and drove a candy apple red sports car.” They say to themselves. “How dull!” They exclaim after reading one of my memories, or they say to themselves after leaving my home.
I don’t want to be boring. I don’t want to run out of words and cease to impress people. Not to say I write to impress people, but I want to leave a legacy. I want to leave a littering of memories behind me.
As I wrote earlier,
“Strip me down to the bone, and you will find me exposed, vulnerable underneath my skin. It is all this flesh covering me that makes me modest yet. My lips do not chatter from the cold, nor do I hesitate when I speak. I do not want a legacy that consists of being another grain of sand on the beach of souls. I want an orchard of words, trees with paper trunks with my flowing script wrapped around them like ivy. I want my words to never die. I want these word trees to reach the heavens and to fill the skies with every wish like fireworks on the fourth of July. When I was about fifteen, I realized that wishing on stars was superfluous. I didn’t want to wish upon a star that floated off in the heavens too distant to hear my dreams. My theory was I should make a wish on the trees, they make a better home to latch one’s dreams upon. Trees may become scarce one day, and then my dreams will sprinkle onto the earth like dew or rainfall. So, now, looking forward and looking backward like Janus, I realize what I truly want is an orchard of words. Trees with branches waving in the air, scattering my words like winds singing through a dry, parched land. (Searing through the silence.)”
I want my words to matter, to make a legacy. I want to create an orchard of words. I want it to be beautiful and bright and vivid. I want to astound people, but also resonate with people. I don’t want to be forgotten in the shuffle. I want to create something that lasts.
I never felt as though my life were permanent; I felt temporary. I want to create something that outlasts these feelings of just being here for the short term. I remember one year in February, my mother called, telling me, “This is the day I almost lost you.” Another time on my birthday, she cried into the phone, “I never thought you’d make it this far, but I’m glad you did.”
I’m a few weeks away from twenty-eight, and to be honest, I never thought I’d make it this far, but I’m glad I did.