Wow.. What to write; after 6 months?! What a flake as a writer I have been, on and off for so long. And yet so many valid fucking excuses I have, for everything else, other than not writing.
I'll let these hands take over for a small while, let be animated the key and keyhole portal of my true self imprinted on this borrowed flesh. How can I be more poetic? How can I stop from yielding to the days as they march over me? So many ways I know how to live the answer to these questions, and yet countlessly I shun my escape, day after day. I am overruling my calling, and running from myself in the ways I learned as a young girl. I defy my body. I hush my mind and all the brass, silver and gold keepings inside that seek fruition. And then I curse my fate! What a joke I've shaped so much of my time into. What a mockery of my capabilities and destiny. Dancing along in chaotic parades of dishonor and shame and immaturity... I know my time is near. I can feel it knocking. I know I have fan backwards far too fast for just a little longer than I was allowed, and I feel slightly like a newly blinded person, that my fate will come into an uncomfortable permanence not fit for me, if I fight life much longer. I've done too much damage to the world around me to be in tune with the future much, or the promise I know it holds. But I feel that we are born with the pull of hope, and we are made with the urge to follow calls. It's our souls job to weed out which scents we leave to the winds, and which sounds we work feverishly to hone in on. I know I've stacked straws higher than Kilimanjaro on a losing bet; on a lame horse. I've been wondering, lately, if I have enough of my senses left in tact to heed the final calls that will sway my fortune promisingly. Or if I have fought too long, and too hard towards my own suffering by engaging in temporary escapes. Too many trapdoor shortcuts and even the most travel savvy sailor can lose their way. I wonder...
Alasssss,
I started to write this half-dressed and alone, cross-legged out back. Just me and the coldest parts of the night. But the rustling and sight of an enormous nocturnal creature of some sort left me scurrying for the safety of my own room indoors. As a result, my ability and pace of writing is vanishing as always when combined with artificial warmth, and the racket of a t.v. necessary for a dear one to sleep. So in conclusion I am done here, and headed to bed to find the sleep that should have been the daily reprieve I settled for so many years ago. The natural, allowable, sufficient escape. I will try it on for size tonight, and God-willing, soon it will be the only escape I choose.
Sweet dreams world :) And Happy Thanksgiving.
-dm.
