pink is the new black.

i can feel them,
these bugs...
the filth clawing away at me.
in these hours of desperation,
i keep clinging to unspoken thoughts.

i wander everyday,
although i seem to always be in the same place...
i speak out of routine...
it's a stark dichotomy,
the ability to be two places at once...
a restless wanderer.
always thinking about one thing,
that didn't seem to leave me...

nor do i believe i want it to be gone...
it's become a welcoming thorn in my flesh.
a dangerous one... at that.
but still the warmth, the comfort of it all keeps me coming back.
the thought of happiness...
maybe it's more of a quest,
and adventure, a test, something i need to overcome.
maybe it will be the death of me.

speaking only with mannerisms
leaves infinite possiblities as to what exactly i am talking about.

i have just made the transition to a new state of being.
...a dreadful writer.

i remember reading essays written by David Suzuki. The memories of his scraggily white goatee, his large thick frames, that surrounded his beady eyes.
his passion for biology, that spurred him on to do hour long shows about the hairs on the backs of bees.
those memories, forever etched in my mind.
"why, of all the things that i have ingrained in my mind.... why did i have to lose some of my memory space to the physical attributes of David Suzuki?"
I can still remember what he looks like shirtless...
and yet, i can't remember 90 percent of the things i did when i was five years old...

it's a strange condition,
i have never met David Suzuki, nor will i probably ever get the chance to meet him.
but from what i've heard,
his lectures had the ability to mezmorize people...
students would pack into a lecture hall, creating massive fire hazards, by cramming themselves in just to watch a frail japanese man speak his mind on the natural world.
what was this magic David Suzuki possessed?

this anointing like power... that his mere presence inspired his listeners to better themselves.
to provide them with the courage and sheer audacity to change their world.
to make a difference...
for at least a good 35 minutes....
hopefully more...

upon reading my first David Suzuki essay, i felt cheated...
his ability to carry over his passion for the world, disintegrated into sheer jargon in his writing.

and to all this, i wonder...
why the hell am i writing about David Suzuki?