Frustrations

The words are still all jammed together in my head and it makes me very tired. It's a lot like this:
You've got 1.5 hours to sit with an old friend to catch up and remember that someone loves you so completely. Then the plane leaves, taking them away again for some undetermined time. You got on the road late, because the phone rang with another distant crisis, the dog ate the last pop-tart, the trash was overflowing, the garage door wouldn't open, you just couldn't quite get going. So you rush. You speed anywhere you can, you wonder if you should call and tell your friend your late, you just hope and pray and will that you'll make it in time - with enough time. Then highway traffic locks up. So you take the next exit ramp, plotting a course in your mind that you know will help you arrive faster despite the street lights and school zones. And when you finally make it, there is no place to park. Not even a bad spot, just no spot. So you circle frantically hunting for someplace to stow this cursed vehicle that is just holding you back until - there! Grab your stuff, run inside.

In the end, there's enough time for a quick hug and goodbye again. And it's not enough, but it has to be enough because there is nothing else.

It's kind of like that, this word jam in my head. I've been writing this last week and a half but it's not enough. Not good enough, smart enough, flows well enough... but there is nothing else. The beautiful words I want to use to explain everything just don't come together right.

Moments like this make me wish I had the capacity to truly growl.

In some kind of effort to hold the line, I toss this little piece out. It's older, and probably doesn't say what I want or wanted at the time.

Sanity

Quiet space is a foreign place
And peace is farther than I can reach for the
Clamoring in my brain.
I hear people around me and none of it makes sense for the voices in my head.
Dancing pink dragons distract from reality until the only peace I can conceive is blindness.

Fortune has taken turns chuckling at my failures
And I learn grace as I dodge streams of fire that curl my eyelashes.
Emptiness is something I carry yet do not know
And like those filled with a madness sense, I question the voices in my head; their mere existence, and their truth.

******
And yet, while I read this, I believe that is some sort of masturbatory crap; just stroking my own faults, inconsistencies, and mental ill-health.

In case you're wondering, I keep typing because I'm hoping it scares whatever is killing my muse and let's me be free again.

But I hear Gene Eugene singing 'Stone' - which means so many things to me I can't even begin to approach it. If you've never heard of the band Adam Again, take a look at http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Adam_Again

I shall leave you with a better crafted piece. After all, if you slogged through all of this, you ought to get something decent out of it.

Perspective

I remember walking along an overpass in a city where I once lived. I remember the cold, and the wind, and the dark.
I remember being so weary that a nap, right there on the sidewalk with the broken glass and shreds of paper, seemed like a gift.
But that was a long time ago. I've left it behind. I've moved on.

If I could go back and gather the pieces of myself from all the cities, at each overpass, I might understand a little better, though I'm not sure what it is I would understand.

As a child I played those guessing games, trying to figure out what the real picture was under all the noise. Eventually, I got really good at putting it all together.
But those were simple concepts, and life is rarely simple.

Darkness is an interesting thing. It breathes, feels, reacts. It exists out there, and in here. And sometimes I find myself reaching towards that quiet dark, even though I know that once I've wrapped myself in it's safety, it will seethe with pain.

I remember a house, near a creek, with flowers along the front and grapes along the side. I remember something else, too, but I don't know what it is. I spent time in those rooms, creating things, and I wonder if someone looks at the paint I applied to the walls or the glue I dropped on the floor and feels the way I did.

I trust what I know. I trust what I feel. Sort of.

I am an antique porcelain doll, whose dress is frayed and filthy. I speak volumes. Mostly, no one hears.