I had a thought the other day, which is to say I was thinking. Over-thinking I might add. Because then I started drinking.
But why. There was an out flooding. A deluge. What am I doing. What's happening. Is this right? This isn't right. I'm wasting time. I'm wasting life. School's so stupid. I'm no designer. That's not my passion. I should be writing. I'm hyperventilating, I'm panicking. Or I was, I should say, driving home late from UCLA. Down Venice. I remember only the red lights, not the greens. It's a tell-tale sign. It's the low, the pit to crawl out of, and I've only just seen the bottom. Because the light is high, I suppose. The sky says mid-noon, the time is nigh, and for the first time in weeks I can see my feet. I can see my hands, and the walls of my despair are illuminated. I can find a solid hold. I can pick myself up.
My dad once told me that when I was a child I loved to climb; up mountains, over rocks. I bounded across terrain like a billy-goat. At home I climbed the bookshelves just to touch the ceiling.
I'm older now, I don't climb things anymore, unless it's into my 2nd-story apartment when I lock the keys inside which isn't often, but it's often enough to know that I still have it, that natural inclination to move vertically. To climb, to jump, to fly. I can climb out of this. I can climb over this.
