I cannot promise a future. If you are reading this I made it somehow, and attempt only these lines forever more. I offer my honesty, my fears, my simple interpretations of what I see.
Sometimes a distorted view as if a sailor at Sea. I stare at the stars dreaming of land. The glow of the moon and the willpower to understand the power held within. The breaking heart, the unrequited love, the toils of fitting in and also breaking away.
I shall write tales of long transiberian train rides and staring out the window occasionally. I take breaks to scribble notes on pad and order a vodka from a scary looking fellow. Europe, Asia, and landing unscathed in candle lit bars in Katmandu.
My books are somehow being translated to bulgarian readers, and they smile at me as I do signings with frozen fingers and poetry readings with a hoarseness in my voice from harsh Russian cigarettes. Room service, sushi, and fresh snakes blood in dark alleys in Bangkok.
I stand on stage with the confidence of a well fed artist. My dissolution tainted by money, privilege, and success. I take long walks on the beaches in the south of France, and drink harmonious passionate wine under the Eiffel tower glowing under a Full Moon in October.
Somehow I am still amazed people recognize me. They shake my hand and ask me where I am going next. I reply, “Barcelona seems nice this time of year.”. But, I really plan to head to Key West, as I feel it calling my name. They are offering day trips to Cuba now and I am in the need of some good Rum and a fresh box of Cigars. I will lie in a hammock all day and make love to my woman. We watch endless sunrises and sunsets in lieu of a television set, and read old literature when it rains.
As she goes to the store for supplies I lay in the dunes and take a break from it all. I ask myself aloud questions that have no answers. What did Hemingway drink when he wrote alone? What did he do to create life anew? Did he stroke his unshaven beard after days of lost words. Did the beach bring him peace, grief, or excitement?
I ask myself what I would paint if I was an artist of that temperament. I gaze at the palms and slowly drift to sleep. I dream of my past, my lonely bar days, my freedom and pain. I dream of the future. I wonder, will someone actually toil over me in years to come when I am merely dust to this world?