it should be like breathing.
i'm not promising myself anything any more.
pages are blank and calling, but my voice can't be there to answer them. it's stuck in a meeting with my inner child and goals for life. we're all sitting down having a good throw-down about our expectations and how we're going to act on the outside. eventually, we'll be dragged, thrashing, into the sunlight to deal with simple things like going to the movies, eating a full meal, and putting on that one cd.
but my word-book remains closed, and i stare at it, hoping it could open from pure will. it's gathering consequence and filling space, but it's useless now.
my inability to write, to speak in a voice that could possibly be described as my own, nails me to the cross as i try to pick up a pen.
until i figure things out, until i fall asleep comforted, until the night is no longer my enemy, i'm walking half-hearted and writing just the same.
i'm not hurting anyone, and i'm not keeping things from happening. i'm not a lot of girl or hope right now ... i'm more of loss and anger. the only person i can restrain and fight is me, and i'm the only one i'm hurting, now.
it comes down to a few keys on a ring and a slight glimpse of him in a crowd that stops my heart. there are few choice whos and whats i had figured that i couldn't live without, and he was top on my list of things i'd take with me to a desert island.
now, i chew the inside of my cheek and fuss with the hair falling in my eyes as i try to think of more. but a pen and paper are no longer on any list, and i'm wondering how that died with him too. it's easy to figure it out if i was only willing to do the math.
the point?
ah, there's the rub.
cohesive thoughts and syllables and prose escape me ... they end up misconstrued and inappropriately abstract. they mirror an image that didn't make sense before the reflection. they stay with him, locked away in some part of my heart for which we'll be sending out a search party early in the morning.
now, i've written without writing.
