10:04 pm on a Sunday in March the bitter truth about the true droll nature of day to day existence dropped down upon me. Not in the normal way, in standard depression but in the way that everything seemed minimized, ridiculously tiny and already done. I cried for maybe four minutes thought of the beauty in Langston Hughes poem "Dream Deferred" that I had somehow missed before because I had never actually experienced the truthful tearless and solemn sadness of the acceptance the conceding one's life and hope to chance. Is letting go of one's dreams the ultimate failure, a self inflicted deceit?
It's 10:11 and I can think of a handful of things I can do right now to take my mind off things, I can take a Tylenol PM and doze into a heavy sleep, I can compose garish and self absorbed blog posts about the new songs that I like until the reality of what I am feeling is sufficiently buried or I can finish this book I am reading that may most likely spark the cycle all over again because the truth in words scares me.
The evening news today was a repeat of Saturday making it seem like no time had passed. I have to look at my cell phone screen to be certain because that little black piece of machinery never lies it is connected to satellites.
I am sitting where I was yesterday and my gray cat was too, listening idly to the tapping. The gratuitous tapping that I do everyday. Typing words into fields and playing games with their value. I laugh sometimes at their misuse and find it odd that I care to even notice. This must mean something, right? But process of putting inaction into action is another story and that one is untold. I suppose believing in oneself would be the first step. And that sounds so cliche and self-help to me that I can't avoid smirking. If I read these words somewhere else I would criticize them into non-existence, until they were nothing.
The beautifully serene days everything is visible until everything reminds me of dreams escaped, chances passed and ability shrugged off as luck. I can only hope routine will guide me.
The two words dream deferred have grown to mean more than the 50 words of the entire poem. Dream. Deferred. My stomach turns just contemplating so many smiles and images just dried up and rotting.
It's 10:29. The ends of good books always do this to me, never fails, all these memoirs where the writer does not come out unscathed but still manages triumph. Finds that courage inside that tells them their stories are worth writing. I read the about the author blurb and always scan for similarities between myself and the authors, so far I have found none. Somehow I remain hopeful, think the next book might be the one to spark whatever it is that is inside me, maybe years later I will meet the writer of the book that inspired me and thank them at a literary luncheon where I am the guest speaker. I sit here typing because I believe in something. At this point the tapping has put my cat to sleep she is stretched out long haphazardly in the middle of the hall. She may need to get used to this, this new routine. I'm going to finish the last 20 pages of book I am reading. I might come back to this chair and this tapping tonight too. If I do I do, If I don't I don't.
He gave a face to the now, the poverty, sex, shame and various intricacies that we all lived through growing up American first but with a deep rooted concern for our respective cultures. To this day I read books with a critical eye and am always looking for the future in writing and so far I have only seen it in anecdotes and Junot Diaz. 
