By the time you are reading this, I am in the middle of a breakdown over writing a book or another poem that I might never finish. My palms are pressed to my eyes and I may or may not be making whale noises.
By the time you are reading this, I have given up and began creating this imaginary world filled with scenarios that are next to impossible. But don’t worry, I know they are. And it will be my fault because I like to imagine things instead of doing them. There’s less risks and damage control.
By the time you are reading this, the influx of thoughts have had me inspired to do something drastic like join a cult, live by the beach, make an indie film, change careers. I would have made a Pinterest board about it, too. But later on, I will make a long list of pros and cons and, and being the coward that I was, I will pass up the opportunity.
By the time you are reading this, I have already agreed to my friend who has invited me for a night out drinking, watching a gig, going to the province, or to the beach. I’ll just text my mother my whereabouts when I’m on my way there.
By the time you are reading this, I am wondering why my life feels overflowing yet it never gets full. There’s a hole in the barrel. I don’t know where it is, and I have given up trying to find it. I just let it flow, like the river that I aspire to be.
By the time you are reading this, I am back by myself, enjoying my isolation after a long while of pretending to be sociable and funny and cute. I’ll enjoy the company of the books that I’ll never get to write, the movies I’ll never get to make, and the movements I’ll never get to lead. All inside my silly little head. A million dreams that are just simply that. But there’s still beauty in the attempt.