The Thief

You know she never understood me. How could she? I was just running across the blistering pavement of my youth, while stumbling through the beaches of my adulthood. She tried to sanction my behavior, more only because he had said so. But he would never talk to me. I never would make it easy though. The contradictions of my young character were too many. The surfer. The musician. The skater. The prodigy. The outcast. The alcoholic. The hoodie. The computer whiz. The drug addict. The psychotic. The criminal. The romantic. The poet. The pirate. The player. The traveler. The writer. The hustler. The chef. The hero. Being all of these things was confusing to them. I wouldn't expect anyone to get it really. How could they ever tell me what I was feeling, when I wouldn't even know the answer to that question. Isn't that a silly question anyways? I mean who gives a fuck?  Too many people give a fuck. Too many rely on structure and order when all there really is to it is fluidity. Why just be one when you can be many? Sometimes at the the same time. Sometimes you can just go so deep into one that there can only be one. And this road just keeps getting longer. I fear that I may just get lost one day. Just end up somewhere up north, miles from the rest, just alone. There'll be no compass to point due south. Just me up in some desolate cabin, having finally given up, genuinely not giving a shit. I feel like it can become easy to get lost when you no longer know who you are. But I also feel like you can always find yourself when you need to. And sometimes you think that you should never create anything, because people will just misinterpret it. Perhaps I should allow them to understand soon. Not much time is left anyway. Everybody dies, and they'll die soon. But I have to understand first.