I did some writing for the first time in months. I just wanted to sort out my brain, to set things neatly in piles (organizing is a junket by the way). I feel a little clearer but still messy. I now have little messier piles instead of one big messy pile. Not sure which is better...
I am doubting myself again. My abilities as a person. I have to keep pushing forward. I feel so unexpressed. So stopped up. When I think of being stopped up I get an ASL sign for it in my head (took two semesters but remember almost nothing). The motion in the sign feels so much stronger that the words. Language is a damn powerful thing.
I need to go to the beach. I feel trapped in my head. In my house. In my lack-routine. It's so exhausting. So too much. But life is too busy for the ocean. Ronald working all weekend and so many other things going on I can't keep my head straight.
I miss the quiet and the slow and the clarity I enjoyed just last week. I was present and willful. I knew what I wanted (or thought so). My head wasn't fuzzy. I know much of the feeling is due to being sick, and lord does sick spiral me down.
But here's some writing. And its a new day.
xo, C
---
Short stop to nowhere:
And afraid because can't sleep.
Because bone pops under machine trucks.
So "I get along without you" sleep, and naps
All afternoon. Blankets tender as a leaf.
My soul hot. My soul stiff. My lip tough.
I am a stubborn girl, a no-give-up femme fatale.
And I feel so little and I keep it on. And I feel so...
Exposed and stopped up. A back up chain of all the
Things I didn't say. To protect your feelings...
I would die.
Those times I wither. I open and tearful in bed.
Then the real me comes out-- then the depression
Slithers, tail up. So upset to not be my one and only.
And I exist. I know it. A real perpetual. A real mover
And shake back down to every day life. To routine,
Expectation, letting go. To fear.
I keep every word shot from the hip. Every
Merciful heave-ho.
I keep my knees up. My thigh high. I rumble on
A short-stop to something.
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