Just Kids, by Patti Smith

Today has been filled with this feeling of dread and I cannot for the life of me place it's meaning. I feel unsettled and left of center, so left, I feel left- my body gone from my soul, wandering somewhere in the vast depths of my own stream of inspiration and longing, lives upon lives of options lost to me and drowning in my seemingly endless possibilities....

And I feel my ego is misplaced, or that I am without ego entirely, somehow. It is not my ego that speaks of my possible endeavors or accomplishments or success, but the knowledge of such great opposite, of such failure and inability. Wasted youth, wasted talent and space and love and everything and God, am I scared. I hate to admit it but I am scared. Or scarred? fuck, play on words. fuck, prose.

back up, Meagan...

I got a package today, it's a book and I knew there was a note inside, because the friend who sent it to me, she would never send something without a note, or maybe she would, but I knew she hadn't and I flipped through the book without looking at the cover, searching for her handwriting... and found it on a scrap of paper bag in the front, asking me to please read it- which is and isn't strange... is strange, because if you send a person a book, you expect them to read it, and isn't because she knows me enough that if she expresses her desire for me to understand something that she found in it, she knows I will put all my other books aside and I am already so distraught with inspiration and words and feeling that she is right, and I open the book almost immediately and I am happy she signed her note with love, because God knows I need real friends with real love and she is one person I know to be real and honest, like so many people are not. Honest with herself, and I know if it meant something to her, that this book will jar me in all the ways I need right now and I am thankful to have it.

God help me, I feel like I'm exploding