I asked myself a long time ago where I'd thought I'd be in five years. Or I should say, the question was posed to me and I had no answer and I went home and thought about it over Lord of the Flies, a fresh pack of smokes, and a pot of coffee. What I decided was this: I would still be myself in those five long years from now. Not to say I'd thought they'd be long, but more that they would go slow until it was time to look back on them.
I didn't see the point on trying to change. Sure, change can be good, but I thought I was doing okay: some money, a place to live, and some friends to drink with. Some music, the internet, a typewriter and a laptop. Clothes. Happiness, however that is measured (I found out from others that I was happy, I guess I'd never realized it) I moved from day to day in the monotony but contented. I spent the nights carelessly. I made love recklessly. I kissed the stars and found his lips like silvered spoons. They were beautiful and I was stuck on the ground.
We'll see what tomorrow or next week or two months from now or my deathbed has for me. I guess I'm anxious to find out, but not enough to see a psychic so I know. I don't like conjecture about the future. I like to live it. I like to take each sip of coffee like the Egyptian artifacts they are. Rarities meant to be found in the future by people who weren't me. My life a mystery I'll write in small sentences until it ends. Maybe someone will publish it, someday. Maybe I'll sink beneath the waves and I'll find peace. Someday.