Be Careful What You Wish For
When I was in college I had two friends that I thought were very close, Stephen and Stephanie. Both I considered the greatest. We hung out all the time. We shared an interest in writing, though it was obvious from the start that I was far more ingrained into the fabric of a “writer’s life” than either of them. They liked it thought it was cool, but they did not feel like their air was taken away if they could not write.
One night we were in my house, huddled on my bed, when Stephanie broke out these amethyst colored stones. She felt we were all so close that two things should happen, one if any of us ever needed the other we would send the stone to them, no matter how far down the road it was. Yes I know, a very hallmark moment, but writer’s are prone to the dramatic. Two we should all wish on these stones and tell each other the wish. Stephanie wished for beauty. Stephen wished to have people look up to him. I wished for my life to be rich with fodder for poetry.
I do not know what became of these stones, their wishes, or even them, truly, but I do know what became of my wish. I got exactly what I wished for. I have turned every adventure, person, moment into fodder for poetry. I have dismissed pain as: “oh well at least I have something to write about”. When someone leaves my life I detach myself from what really happened by composing a line or two. The worse part is nothing is ever forgotten. I have this memory that blankets me yet never keeps me warm. Nov 14th 2011, he walked in from the side door in a blue striped shirt holding tea, March 20th 2011, cargo shorts and tshirt that bothered me more than I would like to admit (sat to my left), March 8th 2011 I got tired of standing by the jukebox and gave my last 4 songs to 3 guys that came into the bar like they owned the place then sat in the corner U-shaped booth surveying the nearly empty room. July 20th in a booth adjacent from a group of secretaries and their boss I picked 2, when I should have picked 1.
I wished for was this fodder and now I have poetry. It’s not that I don’t want poetry. I absolutely do. I want to die writing. The sound of the pen dropping to the floor will be the last thing I hear. I just don’t know that the damage has been commensurate of the product. Maybe. Maybe. Perhaps I can modify that wish now?