..snail

Rarely do I want to be some other animal than human. I often do not want to be a human, but never a bird or a fish or an insect. Recently though I have had the reoccurring thought of being a snail. The safety of their homes is always present, available at a moments notice. They are small, insignificant to most everything and glide along their way with deliberate slowness. I want to be a snail in a forest that eats delicious leaves, moves 3 feet a day, and then sleeps under a stump that is becoming detritus. I want a brown shell and a slimy body and I want it all wrapped in simplicity. No large network of nerves and veins and thoughts and emotions to wear me out and to keep me down. Just leaves; they are all I will think about.

I don't know how to make myself happy anymore and I am supremely discontent with every solution of escape that I waste my time formulating. They never come into fruition anyways so I suppose they do not really matter in the end. I just look at my life and see a wash of beige, or a great lake of saltine crumbs, or wet newspaper, or astroturf, or egg cartons. Nothing draws me into it. The 'spicy' things that paint smiles on other people's faces blend into the boringness of tomorrow and they are very unappealing to me. I feel like I am a reading a story of my life and the pages are mostly blank, with haphazard scratches around the margins that are of no substance or value. Flipping through the end of this summer chapter and it all looks the same. Boo.

When I am sad I wear more colors. 

I don't know why I smoke. I am quitting.