I am half sick of shadows... Another day, another week, another month, another year. I'm having trouble focusing. I need to learn to let go of the pressures of work, of life, of family. I need to quit fearing the next phone call, the next doctor's visit, the next buzzing of the alarm clock. I am here in this moment, I'm alive and doing fairly well, and I need to celebrate that instead of listening to the ticking of the clock, anticipating the next moment. It's a character flaw I need to work on, and I guess today's as good as any to start.
Here I stand again, speaking to an empty room. My thoughts aren't worth the cyberspace they would take up if I cared to tweet or post to Facebook, but here I stand anyway. I had no idea how long it had been since my muse had forced me to write. I used to write almost daily, poetry mostly, when I was younger and believed that someone cared what I had to say. I wanted to be e.e. cummings or T.S. Eliot or anyone who seemed to be so comfortable in his own skin to pour out his emotions onto a blank page. It took me a few years to realize that the writers who filled my pantheon of literary deities were not that comfortable after all, but wrote because not writing was more painful than the spilling of emotion. So I think I will take up my keyboard once more, wade out into the battle, and write.
Comments