I finished the Secret Life of Walter Mitty.

I tryed to stop thinking.

I found some other inspiration to get up off my ass and do something.

And I feel the pull to fly. But I can't seam to find the wings I used to soar. Like Icarus didn't die. He just fell to earth and only had a love of the air. Crippled by some imperseptible homesicknesses that he didn't know how to cure.

I wish I knew what flying was for me.

I wish I could just find home.

Writing feels good. But it also feels incomplete. Its a sort of different kind of numb. I wish I could spend all day in a different kind of numb until someone thought my numb was beautiful and hung me out where all the world could see. I wish I could connect with everyone. I could stop and say I feel everything you feel. I'm so in pain, and so in love, and loss, and beauty. I wish I could just find a way to sit and say that. But I think the only time I ever hear that is when I'm stairing at a blank canvas. (that would be my modern art). Its not the the canvas has anything to say. Its that the canvas is listening. And perhaps thats the most beautiful thing in the world.