I am writing a story. And I realize there is no dialogue in it. And my mind begs me to pursue an analysis of myself, of how the lack of dialogue in my stories reflects my general desire to not talk much when around other people; general incompetency to relate and talk with others etc.
Mind, calm down. Writing dialogue is something I’m not good at yet. It is but a skill and it takes discipline to get better at things like this. So please, I would rather spend time on self restraint and focus on the task at hand, instead of slipping into self victimization and trying to locate when, where and how everything got so wrong. Because things are simply not as bad as you claim, and you are not as smart as you think you are. Please help me write the voices of this people. They are silent at the moment but I know there are many things they could tell me if I took the time to listen. Mind, please help me. I need your help. I like working with you.
More things to pursue
Why is it that night life and clubbing are under represented in literature?
Or is it because I’m not familiar with what is being published these days?
I peed into the long grass
singing songs about what you did to my heart
with my jeans around my ankles
I held out an olive leaf
in the beak of a dead bird.
I had killed it.
the soft downy ass of the bird corpse
palmed in my dominant hand
is lukewarm and comforting.
The chorus is no longer about lemonade
but a shoebox coffin covered in dirt,
in earth that was not used in spring.
I sang a song about you once,
careful not to disturb the field mice,
walking home with wet socks in my pocket.