.

I get that you don’t get it.

There being such a constant need for

a pen and paper,

to always be nearby

and one that can only be satisfied by such.

An itch for written words.

You know, I actually feel tightness in my chest,

my ears get hot,

and nothing else is worth my focus.

A few words a day maybe.

But, I’m an optimist,

a seeker of the novel

I know is within me.

So, I carry around this damn laptop.

And my notebook.

And a smaller one.

And my phone for voice notes.

And I dream.

You used to tell me to,

every night.

Remember?

You made it seem like

dreams are all that matter

in a world where

things didn’t make sense yet.

You didn’t tell me that they never really would.

I get that you don’t get me.

-          Looking At You, Dad