Writing Prompt No. Me

Writing Prompt No. Me

A Poem by Brigid Cooley

Kim Carnes is playing on the radio, there's a Beto for Senate poster plastered on the outside of the strip club that I drive by on my way home, and I'm cold, despite the boots that I laced up earlier and the sweater that I'm wearing.

I am trying to write about myself more, which sounds conceited and has proven to be more difficult than I thought it would be.

Yesterday I ate food, drove my car, called my best friend, laughed a lot, cried a little, remembered to breathe.

These things don't seem interesting, but they are the mundane, imperative moments that make up a life.

My life.

My life involves aromatherapy to cure my insomnia, a therapist with a cane, too many CD's, quotes from rom-coms staring Meg Ryan, pen ink, lava lamps, and an alarming amount of unread emails.

Lately, I've been focusing a lot on introspection; exploring what it is that I am made of, hypothesizing that there is more than just blood pumping through my veins, entertaining the idea that I am more than just skin and bones.

It is hard to decipher what the best decisions are for oneself.

Funny, considering how opinionated we are when it comes to other people's choices.

I am trying to write about myself more. It is proving to be more difficult than I thought it would be.

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