there was a time that I wanted to preserve myself. 

i enjoy how blank the page is. 

I have a lot of undoing to do. I thought I was special, that the world or perhaps god had some special purpose for me. I am, in fact, expendable. I could die now (and yes, my family would mourn, I suppose), but the world would not stop. the world would go on. 

i wanted to create poems that were good enough to convince someone to publish them. I wanted to make a poem so good that the editor couldn't say no, had to say yes. and for some reason I wanted to create a book of poems that would be published and sold and I could make money off of these poems because people loved them. 

why would I do that. 

why would I try to make money off of poetry. I suppose I wonder if horace made money off his poems. and even if he did, well, that doesn't matter to me. I don't want that anymore. what the hell do I care to contribute to this large system of capitalism. and by that I mean, I don't think we serve enough, I mean there aren't enough house wives anymore, or just house people, who are industrious in a non-market sort of way, that make stuff from scratch and from scratch they make themselves. I mean let's take a moment and think about how most everything is funneled through a credit card. consider for a moment what doesn't: if you grow a garden, there's a start, but few people do that, and even fewer do it well. and I'm not referring to the farmer who sells his crops. I mean to say the mother who grows tomatoes and then eats them. no dollars or cents. maybe the letter. but when we get down to it, well what isn't tainted (and I do realize how rhetorical that sounds) what isn't tainted by the value of money. even our law books have put a monetary value on human life so as to compensate. 

yes, yes, here I am typing on my computer and loading it on a website, which is all so ironically part of this system. you're right. it's discouraging. it's hypocritical.