So it seems, which makes the past ten years feel wasted
That the only way for me to learn is to reflect
And the only way to appreciate what you are making inside of me
Is to write
So
I'm sorry for the last ten years.

I'm sorry I didn't write when I learned to love.
I'm sorry I didn't write about the sweet and slow breezes in Waikiki
Where human body met human body met stars
When my brother was still alive and I could hold him
When everyone I loved had a home, and the biggest struggle was hitting it big or getting a car or graduating high school or gaining the respect of a boss

How ironic, right, that those were the years that considered so carefully, surrounded by piles of dusty photobooks, the magical 20s, where my parents were beautiful and almost cool looking, where I didn't exist.  What will my children see?

This MBA program is not a writing program.  It's something else, it's interesting but not a purpose.  It's something else.  But I don't want the next ten years like the last.  I know now, I want to write.

And it is powerful to know a thing that is ingrained, predestined
But it is a north star, a map, and not an airplane--I still have to travel on my own.

I hate it when people call themselves writers.  Maybe I'll get there. I don't think I have to, though it may come.

I am really tired of reading bullshit, fb posts, news.  But I very much want to read something meaty, and of the heart, something poetic, rough, and real.  And not white.  I'm sorry, just can't right now.