Thirty One : Maslow

I write a poem about Grace.

She told me in our email correspondence recently that she has written twenty something poems about me. I haven’t bothered to count the pages, strips of paper, scribbles dedicated to her lack of presence in my life.

My new years resolution is to forget her.

I’ve got three months and then another two thousand six hundred and sixty (give or take) miles to see if this can be accomplished.

Save, close the window. Move on.

I can hear the microwave, dreadful machine, beeping at me from the kitchen. Through the living room, down the hall, through my door. Shriek, shriek, shriek. My orange chicken is done.

I step through the house with mechanical precision and retrieve the food stuffs I decided to force myself to eat. Food has become such a bother.

When did food become less of a priority than sleep? Food used to be important; now I feel the hunger pangs tremble through my gut and I ignore it. Later, I tell myself. But when is later when you only eat once a day? Correction : When you have to force yourself to eat once a day?

I chew a piece of the brightly colored poultry and survey the scattered remnants of my life that stack and scatter throughout my room. I should put a sign out my window that reads “Everything must go – want it? Make an offer!” Lining the far wall with everything I own. Want the beat up guitar with no strings? Yeah, five dollars sounds fair! Sold to the man with no hair!

My eyes keep surveying the room as I shovel another piece of chicken into my face. The box of PCT maps looks at me defiantly. I need to cut them into more manageable sizes, remove the filler. I need to get my shit together. Motivation. I need a lot of things, but don’t. I don’t really need anything I tell myself.

Maslow’s hierarchy of needs (in order of most to least importance):

-Physiological needs

-Safety needs

-Love and belonging

-Esteem

-Self actualization

-Self Transcendence

These are things that need to be explored, questioned, thought about deeply.

April is coming.

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