Day 159 and 160
The lonely bits are the worst.
When it gets hard. When the going gets rough.
When you wish someone could do it for you.
I’m writing a small novel. Writing is not totally pleasurable for me. It often feels awkward, uncomfortable, like a sweater too tight and scratchy with wool.
Like a smoker quitting but jonesing for a drag,
looking for the right words is hard,
makes my chest feel tight,
the only relief
the perfect sentence,
the right flow of lines.
Small symbols joined together,
a lovely kind of code.
I’m looking for a rhythm,
a language to describe the world.
I’m hitting a difficult point in the story,
where I need the perfect words, and
I’m scared I won’t find them.
And I wish someone could write it for me,
Push me aside and put pen to paper,
or words on screen
while I take a nap,
get lost in sweet sleep.
But I can’t.
This story is mine to tell.
Has fallen upon me from the heavens,
was born upon me from the earth.
And that’s scary,
kind of lonely, and mean.
Heavy with responsibility,
riddled with the meaning of it all.
But then again those are the bits that are always hard.
The lonesome journeys to the center of ourselves,
where no one,
not even true loves, or mothers, or friends,
can help us.
Mourning is like that.
Gray grief that hangs like curtains,
a heavy fabric that blots out the light.
I wish someone could do it for me,
the hard parts,
the lonely bits.
But there’s a love in that lonliness,
a comfort in it’s cold, pale hands.
Working through the hard parts makes us strong,
thickens the skin and sharpens the mind,
makes us know ourselves
through and through.
Makes the heart pound with wanting,
With the need for connection.
With the need to lay on cold hard ground under the moon
like the wild wolf
with the plae yellow eyes,
Let us be unleashed.
Let us explore our fears and sadness,
let us look them in the eye.
There is truth there,
waiting to lay bare.
A hollowness waiting to be filled.
Small steps on the path to
Thank you for listening,