truth meets happiness; wedding set for soon

if i were to write a book, i'd write about passion. get your head above your waist, i'm talking about the intellectual kind not the r rated stuff.

rewind: get your head above your waist. that deserved repeating.

i've often entertained the idea of having a weekly column in some publication about passion. i'd be immensely successful and respected. i'd give wonderful pieces of insight and readers would swear i was talking to them. publishers would plead with me to write a self help book. i'd end up selling out to write for oprah's magazine. she'd send one of her feminist producers to do some big spread on my simple life in my over-priced ny loft and my zen inspired pier one decor. i'd be there, standing in front of my enormous windows, wearing my hair long, linen pants, and some cutsie tanktop, in the vrksasana tree pose. the sunlight would beam through the smog forming a halo around the top of my head. inside, i'd wonder if i was happy. poetic justice.

i'm concerned with the enormous amount of people who don't know why they wake up in the morning. who have never asked themselves that question. who have never thought it was an important question to ask oneself. who have never used the word "oneself." i'm concerned, because if you do ask yourself, and you don't know, then why go on living? for your dead end job? for your paper marriage? because you don't trust anyone else to take care of fluffy? i'm not condoning suicide here. i'm just asking a question. why do you get up in the morning?

you see, i know. i don't know if i can explain it to you or not. that doesn't bother me. it used to. i used to believe i was a writer, damnit, so i shouldn't have any problem translating my thoughts into words. then i realized, knowing isn't half of the battle, it's the entire war and so long as i know, i've served my self-serving duty. also, i am, thank goodness, an evolving person, so my reasons for crawling out of the feather womb every day periodically refresh themselves. more than that, i've nothing to prove to you. proving things to you does not make my reasons for getting out of bed any more valid. so, nah. and know that, when i ask you these questions, you've nothing to prove to me. that's not what i'm asking. i'm asking, essentially, what makes you happy. i have also discovered that, apparently, my favorite punctuation mark, is the comma. go comma's!

in case you are not accustomed to discussing your metaphysical reasons for opening your eyes, let me clarify my investigation. i'm not asking literally why your eyes break with the day, i'm asking why do you want them to? what is your passion? what drives you? what do you love more than anything else in the entire world?

so often, people begin this train of thought and they announce:

oh this is easy. i get up because i have to.
because i have to go to work.
because i have to work to make money.
because i have to have money to pay bills.
i have bills because i have to buy things.
i have to buy things to make me happy.
oh.

oh indeed.

i'm guilty. we all are. but i could truly do without the bullshit that america tells me is the stuff of life. then again, in a way i appreciate it. for egotistical purposes, i love being juxtaposed to the parade of marching suits. the contrast tends to help me see myself better. well, i suppose, how could you not. but i tend to like that, sometimes. to be the gray ball among the black balls, in order to stand out----not for attention---but to better see myself.

where do you see yourself? why do you wake up in the morning? what is your passion?

i was going to tell you mine. but, it's late now and the feather womb is calling. maybe i'll do it later.

g'nite all. take care.