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8 July 2017

Got to Get Out

by Andrew

To see things, I got to get out. To find things to write of, I must get out. I must wander. I must roam. It is my fuel.

I wonder, what will happen when I do get some money. I'd love to buy security and comfort. Even when I get a little of it now, of security and comfort, I indulge in it. I stay inside. I kick-up my feet. I relax. So I wonder, what will happen when I actually do have money. Because certainly I will—I must tell myself. But I don't must tell myself too. Only, I act so-so about if I'll get money or not for luck, a bit superstitious, unwilling to so easily offend that beautiful, golden Fortune. I attract the damn stuff regardless, money, there's nothing I can do about it.

Even wandering, with no way to make money, I attract money. If I'm hard-up for some cash, I find some on the side of the road, or in a field, or in the sand. Or someone left some in an atm, some money. Or someone just hands it to me randomly and then continues walking—thank you. But that's that cycle I give to myself. I give money freely. And it comes right back. I have eyes watching over me, I am very aware.

But I don't give so freely anymore. Boston taught me that. I barely ever have much money. But I was still giving away freely to any bum who would just ask. But in Boston, there is always someone watching that bum. And if you can afford to give-away money, then you must have money period, is the thinking. And that person watching keeps eyes on you, and tries to get more money out of you. Because if you give money freely to someone who will just ask, then you will give even more to save your life, or something like that.

The damn criminals in Boston are even smart. Harvard-taught criminals they are. Even the bums have doctorates in Boston I suppose. Because—just writing that I realized, above—that is fairly smart. If you do something on a small scale, it's a good indication of what you'll do on a larger scale. But that is Boston. I hate damn Boston. I'll have no more of it.

But I been feeling like a prune dried-up. Since I've left Europe, where everything was fresh and new, I've not found writing so easy as I did there. But it is returning. The act of writing influences more writing. The thing was, that traveling,—airports, airports, airports, bus stations, and train stations—I had stopt writing, constantly having to keep an eye over my shoulder, completely uncomfortable. The vein scabbed-up. But I am luckily finding,—or proving—as I write more now, that writing is becoming easier and easier.

Still, I need to get out. I need to see things to influence my thoughts, my ideas. If I am in the same surroundings, looking at the same walls, I am thinking the same, tired thoughts. But the second I step outside, look. There is a bird shitting on that nice, new car. There is Betty who has—what is it now?—4 kids, and she looks even better than before. How's that, then? She's not even dressed for the gym. And that fucking car almost just ran me over. You should always signal your intentions, asshole. Well, with some things that is the case anyway. About some things you must remain quiet.


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