I would say that I want to write, but I feel a need to write. However, everything is blocked up. When I try to speak my feelings and my emotions, they come short, my lips won’t open. When they do the words fall out in the tiniest of whispers. When I am able to speak, it is as if the person receiving them is on another planet, and their responses are non-sequiturs that leave me feeling isolated.

But they aren’t who I want to talk to anyway. Even my fingers when I type can’t quite get all of the problems out. Where do I begin? Where will it go? Why do I feel the need to ask? Is it better not to explore this, just wait it out? The one I want to talk to is the one who patiently watches my face struggle to let out the words. He sees the mind working, and can feel the vibrations of the cogs grinding in my head as he pulls me into his embrace. And he waits, knowing half of my curse, thinking he is to blame for my melancholy.

I really hope I can find the words soon.

 

 

Also, happy one year anniversary to this blog. If you can say happy for a lot of the things I have posted…

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Daily Contemplation 1

It’s one of those days where you come home and you see that your bike has been fixed. You didn’t ask for it to be; in fact when you had the time and the money you were going to sit down and do it yourself. But someone loved you that much that he did it for you, and waited for you to get home and be surprised. You didn’t show your surprise all that much, didn’t even say thank-you, which you’ll feel guilt for later.

What you did do is change your clothes and come back downstairs and took your bike down the old dirt road. It’s been months since you last rode, and your legs already feel a little tired and the dry dirt causes extra friction. But still you’re going, and your mind is travelling at the same speed and then the wind picks up–going against you of course.

And then you’re peddling harder and harder and it feels like you’re going nowhere, the wind has left you suspended. And you wonder, “Am I so weak that even a little bit of wind can keep me down?” But you keep peddling because you’re not ready to turn back, and if you stop, the wind will have taken you. And then you wonder some more, “If I can’t even beat the wind, what makes me think I can fight anything else? Succeed at anything else?” But still you peddle on, because you know the breeze will cut down eventually.

And when it does, you’ll feel as if all of the air has been stolen. You’ll want the breeze back. For all  your fighting, you’ll miss it when it’s gone. It wasn’t the norm, but it wasn’t abnormal. It’s just how things are.

Story a Day

So May is Short story month, so guess what that means!! Actually, I started this blog a year ago after participating in StoryaDay.org, so seems fitting that I would post about it. Anyway, today I wrote a little story, or rather a piece that suggests a story.

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I had written letters to you before. I didn’t know your face, what you would sound like, not even your past. I did know that you would keep to your word, that you would, against all odds, find me and make me feel wanted. And I knew that I would tell you everything.

Oh, how I have fantasized about telling you everything. How I dreamed, all the things that made me feel ashamed, my insecurities, my lessons. I even imagined you being able to read the worlds I couldn’t express. Because, to say it would be to confine the vast emotion that I felt.

You would hold my hand, squeeze it, when you felt a twinge of truth, shoot deep. I might cry, and you would wipe away my tears, with a thumb, your eyes looking into mine, your lips tight, turned down in concern, not disapproval.

Why would I imagine such a moment? Why not think about future moments where we would plant a garden together; rubbing our dirty cheeks together, kissing each other’s salty lips? Or what about a future time where we would watch a show, curled up on the bed, your hand rubbing my shoulder, while I tuck my head into your neck?

I dream of those too, my love, and they have come to pass. but when I tell you all, I will have opened myself full to you, the rarest gift I can give, and then it will be your choice. The choice that I anticipate and fear. Will you accept my sadness? Take it into you as your own, as I am willing to take in yours? Or will we have found the obstacle that you cannot face when it comes to fighting for me, when I have dreamt of fighting for you?