Jane

I don’t read anything I can’t be bothered with.
Reading her, I want to write like Jane.
I see the tagline “morning pages”
I think I love her.
I wonder what she thinks of me.
I wonder if she reads what I write.
She writes scattered.

She writes things I live.
The way I live.
Imperfect, chaotic, beautiful.

How to seperate thoughts onto pages.
I will teach myself everything I need to know.

Maybe I am too stubborn.
Maybe I am secretly very smart.
Maybe I am over tired.
I take that back I certainly am.

I want to stay here on the page with her.
My eyes hurt but my head wont shut up.
I don’t feel I can write scattered enough.
Maybe if I was more awake.

Maybe if I practice.

————–

This is Jane. She’s a wicked writer and editor for The Newer York, an experimental lit mag out of the gigantic apple. The first issue came out this August and by a sort of fluke submission, I had my first piece published. It’s a list, titled ‘Misters’.