Killing Time

It has been a while since I wrote, wrote anything of meaning that is.

Once I sat, staring off into space pretending I was slaying a dragon or fighting off evil space aliens, just killing time.  No worries, no cares.  I listened to music, consumed massive quantities of alcohol and drugs, every day was a party.  Talked to people all the time, wrote poetry and short stories, constantly drawing tattoo ideas, consumed by creativity.  The ideas just pounding away trying to get out of my head.  People said I was good, really good, but I never beLIEved.

Life caught up with me.  Wife, kids, pets, work, and tons of responsibilities.  I am no longer Killing Time, I realize time is killing me.  The creativity left my soul, or so I thought.  It has recently started again, the pounding, like the beating of the war drums.  Like throwing a super bounce ball in a very small room, in zero gravity, it will bounce forever.  It has been trapped all these years.  White walls, padded room.  I have to get it out.  I have hid in the shadows for far to long, afraid of myself.  Afraid they will find me and remember me.

I don't know who will read this, if anyone. This isn't an introduction.  The thoughts just have to get out, before I explode.  Maybe this will be my confessional, maybe it is just a trap I set for myself.  It will be irregular, as am I.  It will be abnormal, as am I.  It will be where I spread my wings again and maybe this time I can beLIEve, I can fly.  I am going to finally say those things I was too scared to say before.  I am Jamboi.  "Jam on little white boy."  I always have been, and I always will be.