My fingers rest on the keyboard as thoughts on how to begin lull me into a trance. I would try to write but the tears won't come and even if they did I couldn't let them soak in. I cannot woe is me. I won't. Who wants to read about how difficult the process is? Making the wrong decision inspires catastrophic havoc as an avalanche in the soul. Trivial in the scheme of things but each moment is an inspiration to the next.
I dreamt that I was putting words into a machine. With careful precision I packed them into the chrome container. It was clunking like an old dryer on the spin cycle. The words were not the product, nor the material for, they were the belts and pulleys, the cogs and clockwork. The words were spongy and wet like an old Nerf ball, damp with autumn rain. This machine of words was not my own and I felt bitter for the care. I try to make the words go, to flow with precision. The words just fail.
In my real life, a strong cup of coffee on a misty morning makes words go. A stretch, an itch, moving - makes the words go.
GO
I feel like going right now; pack up the
Honda and run away. Drive. Sleep in roadside hotels and stop at
roadside attractions. City hop. This is just a desperate vision. A blaze of rueful glory. In my real life, I would have to turn around. Stop and reread until I found the spot where I left off.
Running away in desperation is of hasty endeavor. It is a sign of depression, a step away from ending your life. Writing your own obituary is serious. Tragic and lovely are veils that hide the horror of such an escape. Laughter might arise for curiosity. Finding humor in the tragedy is a shield for that angry part of the soul. That part just whispers silent screams if we let it. I'd rather shout out loud and would if I was alone in my car.
I tell myself to suck it up. I look in the mirror and face our existence. I am not alone and I have necessary faith in myself. You do too. Will it.
Fingers on the keyboard, thinking of dreams of words - I am alive and magnificent. No hype, just floundering in a tank of sharks. Full of remorse, guilt, leftover alcohol; these awful contributors to progress. I convince myself that I won't break free. The shame spiral, the impending doom, I expect and fear. I face them day by day and I know I have the will to change. don't I? I must, it is the only option of dedication, of faith, of hope. Fingers type:
I am alive and magnificent.