Thinking in Ink

If there’s one thing that I’ll always ask myself, it’s why I ever had the gal to pick up a guitar only to put it back down and hand it over to someone else? I guess living life as a roughneck was easier, while writing had easily been accomplished without any use of bass or drums, and I suppose having a paycheck is nice, too. I also quit the keyboard, viola, harmonica, and a career as a wealthy and famous rapper (I’m in my twenties, so my expectations don’t clash with reality at all). 

All this week, the factory has taken me to the task of learning how to drive a forklift and backing up a big ol’ truck from warehouse to warehouse. I better not quit this – my lifeblood depends on success. Who am I to my love if I can’t feel pride in myself? Who am I to even ask? If you fail, sir, you can try again. 

It takes three fuck-ups to get somethin’ right, right? Right.

I do suppose that I’ll find out soon enough or perhaps I’ll die as an incomplete joke with the punchline echoing through the crowd long after I’m gone.


 I hope not. Be steady.

 Just be. It’s all right.


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