Why do I feel less than, why do I shirk and shy away from those I want to luxuriate in. It seems like they speak a different language. A language of confidence. And in this new land of understanding, one might assume that I have all the confidence in the world. But I still lack the confidence of creation. To know what I like, what I want to put in my mouth and out upon the paper, that is more than rebuke and sadness. To create a joy, an improvisation, a long note sucked in and handed out with my eyes,.
I know I have it in me. I could build rainbows. But my mind is blocked. And every once in a while, I seduce it into confidence, into a color, and that green and yellow splotch frames the jokes and the accent I make.
But if I don't have a color, I feel like a seed in the ground, hugging the earth.
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