You told me to write it all down. You told me it would make me feel better to release the grip I had on the past, to let it flow out of me in a stream of words, because words can heal. But like I said before, words have only hurt me so far. That’s why I have boarded up the windows that provided a glimpse into the wretched house I ruminate in. Too many have walked past in ignorant disinterest. Some have glanced in its direction with passive curiosity or a willful arrogance. A few have wandered to the front stoop to sit for a while in contemplation only to leave exasperated. One knocked, and I let him in. What a disaster we made of it. He left and the door slammed. I don’t know by whose hand. Maybe both. And I vowed I’d never share so much of my shelter again. So I stopped writing. I holed up. Anxious and adulterated. Stubborn in my solitude. Detached from the very idea that one could give anything without losing everything.
While we may disagree on this front I am obliged to give it a chance. You have not led me astray yet so it may turn out just the way you proposed, and if it doesn’t I’ll feel vindicated in proving you wrong for the first time in the course of our time together.
It used to pour out of me like a faucet, straight from the tap, unfiltered and pure. Constant and overflowing. It used to be easy. And now it’s not. I’m all clogged up.
But I will snake the drain. And maybe my congested memories will start to trickle out in words and phrases. I will gather them, piece them together, and make something of my pain, my worry, my hopes, my regrets…
My hands grasp at the memories, scared of breaking again.
I’ve been thinking about relationships lately. How they come and go. Or come and stay. I wonder if the story I’m telling myself is true, or if it’s just another easy way out of something I didn’t realize I never wanted. I second guess every compliment, every kind gesture, because I’ve seen the exploitation of trust gather forces and then shake the earth, but only so much for a tremor that the richter scale wouldn’t notice.
It is an unsettling.
What is true? What do I wish were true?
I’m so tired in the wondering. And in the knowing.
Because in knowing, only I can create change.
I told my therapist that I don’t remember the last time I was genuinely excited about anything. I haven’t felt pure joy in recent memory. Everything is in shades of grey, shimmering cooly. There is no fire. I do not desire anything, maybe because I desire everything.
I wonder if this is it. Is this the life I want. Or is there something else, some wild beauty that is missing. Maybe I’m just tired and cranky and losing hope in the why.
So I’m making a list of possible things. Wild incredible things. And maybe a desire will ignite inside me again.
There is a sacred place where steady trees cover graceful hills and unforgiving mountains. It is easy to be breathless and in awe.
It is hard to compromise where we do not belong.
This is a different kind of loneliness, even though I’ve felt it all my life. Just adjacent to connection. Watching others discover love, wishing you knew if it were true.
I feel all alone in friendly crowded rooms. No one seeks me out for solace, and no one stays to keep me warm. Some barely catch my eye and then pretend they never saw.
I want a best friend, a partner in crime. Who knows what I’m thinking before I say it. Who sees the small hesitation before I say I’m fine. Who grabs my hand and runs. Who nestles up to me when it all becomes too much. Who is thick as thieves and we do not care what others think.
But imposter syndrome paints a vivid picture of all the people I thought I was. And every single version doesn’t come close enough to what I think other people love.
It’s hard enough to live inside this body. Without the worry that for others it’s not good enough to be seen and held and free.
I just want to pack a bag
with my guitar,
a good pair of sunglasses,
a couple of good books,
an infinite playlist of all my favorite songs
and get in my car.
I’d roll the windows down,
let the wind rush over me,
hands drumming on the wheel.
sing loud and wild.
I won’t even care if I’m off key.
Take the next turn
just to see where it takes me.
Stop in towns I’ve never seen.
Say hello to strangers
and ask them where they’ve been,
where they want to go.
Let the land unfold before me,
beautiful and unruly.
Breathe in the horizon,
Walk barefoot until my feet
have memorized every crevices
of the earth.
I just want to pack a bag
get in the car,