RAISSA G NOBLAT

If I were a Writer,

I would be so happy… 

So lost on my so many nonexistent ideas I would fly high. 

Scream very silently while shutting people up.  

I would sound very on point and unique. 

My chapters would be way too long. 

So informative to no one. Only to me.

Then I’d be one step closer to intelligence as I went forward. 

I would type fast, with no mistakes.  

Would be like English were my first language.  

I would sound so precise they would just Not get me. 

If I had started that line of thought a long time ago,  

I would be happy by now… 

I could’ve had written so many words by now. 

If I were a writer, I”d feel extremely strong. I would feel so lonely and complete. I would cry felling so happy.  

I would not cry and not drink wine. I would have whiskey neat instead. Maybe I’d consider stopping beer and starting to be quiet among other people. 

 If I were a writer, I would most definitely not love anyone besides me.  

I would have lived in years from the present and the future would only sound as my past. I would have no past and Vintage would be my last name. 

If I were a writer, my fingers would look so long and skinny… 

If I were a writer I’d learn how to type with one hand only. 

As I (would’ve) held a spliff at my other hand (the right hand). 

If I were 21 I’d become a writer… 

Since those times were so much more fulfilling. 

I’m 25 and I don’t believe in myself anymore.  

They say I’m young, that I have much time to believe in myself. 

They allege I have the young looks. 

 “Twenty-five? I could swear you were nineteen!” 

Nineteen. 

If I were 55 I’d start writing about how I learned to type with only one hand so I could smoke at the same time.  

I would write 9 chapters about that expertise. 

 I would sound so sexy and mysteriously lonesome. 

 The chapters would be short, as if there were no secrets behind my one typing hand, since smoking is so good to your soul. 

 I’d also tell people, 

 “Don’t you give up on the first 3 months, it takes practice. That’s all it takes.”

But I didn’t become a writer at 25. 

The one time I had a real shot at the idea of being a writer was a difficult, but easy-going time… 

I was taking Alprazolam, Sertraline Hydrochloride and Methylphenidate Hydrochloride.

Therapy was on point.  

I just had a broken heart (no big deal). 

I wanted to be a writer, but I had no idea about it. We never seem to know the things we need (Want) at the time we were supposed to know it. (Desperately)  

No words that no one would never read, could fill me up so intensely that I would know all I wanted was to be a writer, a writer of 

nonexistent ideas. 

So I went past that idea, (that I didn’t know about) … 

Gave up on skinny fingers. 

Gave up on them long chapters.  

I gave up on loving Only myself and loved everyone But myself. 

I gave up on not crying and had way too much wine. 

I threw all my whiskey into the drain (kitchen sink).  

Smelled so bad.  

I chose to Forget about how to speak English and I accepted that I was 25 and a failure (Dreamer) and the biggest disaster (Artist) in Los Angeles and spend the next few years away (running away) from Dtla. Then I settled for short & fat fingers. Was ok with that slow mind, was ok being like everyone else. I went back to screaming loud, as loud as I could. 

Oh, I also stopped smoking weed, when I was 25.  

So, there was no point on typing exclusively with my left hand. 

So, my teases on that expertise flew (high) away. 

No book at 55 

No 9 short chapters. 

No audience and no sense on stopping beer or wine.  

I should’ve been a writer.