NREMT-P
I used to talk to myself. That is to say, the me I used to be would hold conversations with the me I am today. I remember so clearly, sprawled out on the kitchen floor in that apartment we had on soroya court, green butcher block shards surrounded me as I stirred sweetened condensed milk into safeway coffee. The world was so accessible then. Exciting. Full of promise. The Moscow Boys Choir contained a set of magical lyrics that you could only hear if you really strained yourself and if you already knew they were there. I have either grown so cynical, or much too far removed from those conversations with myself. The forty year old me, what does she look like? What are her dreams. Myzel, will she still think of him perched on a grassy August hill, late sun kissing the wild strands of hair as he fades into the distance?
Forty. We sat across a plate of chips and salsa when he told me that his taste buds aren't as sensitive as they used to be. "Well," I said laughingly, "you are pushing forty."
You musn't start thinking in those terms. If x equals y and you add z plus x, you will certainly arrive at v! And it startles me to think that the whole system that we all believe in supports that idea, that very idea which of course does not equal life. That anyone with any amount of living can tell you with great certainty does not equal life. There will always be salesmen, bankers, janitors, secretaries, etc. To break out of that chain of thought all together, to no longer be an organ stop, that line of thinking that fear gives birth to... oh, this line of thinking, this great thing I have tried to come to, the journey ... cowardice is peppered throughout ... to stop, perhaps caring even what I think, going into a thing. There is no better advice than your own that anyone can give you, and it is the last you seek. Can you imagine such a thing!
It is nearly summer. Little excites me beyond the smell of diesel and watching the hands turn into little automotans. This imperfect creature. There is not a thing I would change.
Forty. We sat across a plate of chips and salsa when he told me that his taste buds aren't as sensitive as they used to be. "Well," I said laughingly, "you are pushing forty."
You musn't start thinking in those terms. If x equals y and you add z plus x, you will certainly arrive at v! And it startles me to think that the whole system that we all believe in supports that idea, that very idea which of course does not equal life. That anyone with any amount of living can tell you with great certainty does not equal life. There will always be salesmen, bankers, janitors, secretaries, etc. To break out of that chain of thought all together, to no longer be an organ stop, that line of thinking that fear gives birth to... oh, this line of thinking, this great thing I have tried to come to, the journey ... cowardice is peppered throughout ... to stop, perhaps caring even what I think, going into a thing. There is no better advice than your own that anyone can give you, and it is the last you seek. Can you imagine such a thing!
It is nearly summer. Little excites me beyond the smell of diesel and watching the hands turn into little automotans. This imperfect creature. There is not a thing I would change.
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