A Year Of Writing: 2015-7-1108

It hurt.  It always hurt when I thought about it, but I could never bring myself to stop.  Why did I crave a good, honest real-life torture.  what did I ever gain by thinking and looking, looking and thinking, driving myself mad to the point I could no longer scream?!

more pain behind these pale eyes who had already witnessed enough.

I tried to quit.  I did.  I found ways to trick my brain into thinking of literally anything else, but those moments escaped quickly.  I would cry far too often because of it.  c’mon, just a little bit of relief… but the images always found their way back into my blood, like the drug I was fiending for.

It wasn’t fair.  I’d already hurt enough.

~~~~~

I was waiting for the elevator to bring its bell of arrival, I’d pushed the call button like forever ago.  I stared down at my shoes and my clothes, wishing I was someone else.  somewhere else.  I want a new life, just for a bit.  Total Recall really had something there.  A new body to flaunt or hide, it would be fun.  I kid everyone, everyday - these clothes aren’t me anymore.  That person doesn’t exist.

finally.

The usual crowd stepped into our communal casket, day after day, head bowed towards the cold light transmitting from their hand.  No one ever says good morning anymore, it’s quite annoying.  I’m not any better, I’m such a hypocrite.  Something distracted me today and my eyes remained upright.

It was quick, almost nothing.  My soul sent up a signal flare, triggering the side head tilt that meant more.  I had to see why.  Something was calling my attention, but it was void of any sound.  It was howling silently to spot it.

And then I did.

And then I stopped breathing and then I passed out.  As I did, my brain acknowledged what I’d been socially inflicting on my eyes for months, was now in front of me.  And my bodies’ best defense was to give up.  I wasn’t strong enough to sustain real life.

A Year Of Writing: 2015-4-1007b

“what time is it?  how long have i been asleep? “  There is partitioned light bursting through every cracked wooden slat, filling the room, but few shadows.  I panic; launch my darting looks into a heap, scattering them around the room, hoping something will sonar back the answer.  nothing.  “it’s chilly, but barely fall adjacent.  i know this.  i’m nearly hyperventilating on this comfortable mattress, while millions of people wake from theirs, oblivious to my situation.  eager to start their day by gorging on pancakes & guzzling obnoxious coffee.  Or at least simulating to the best of their loneliest ability.  and topping that off by watching fucking stupid television, like there isn’t serious problems in the world.  selfish dicks.

but who really gives a shit anyway.”

…focus…

“maybe if i get out of bed, i can figure this out.”  The familiar man and dog are right where they should be, but something is still off.  The quad-legged slowly engages his muscles, temporarily atrophied from the night before; he looks my direction.  “i know.”

We get up and assemble the pieces that make his morning meetings tolerable.  I stare at everything either attached or in my hand.  “the notion these green, fancy squared plastics are any better for our planet is a fucking joke, especially.  But what option do i have… there’s too many causes now and it just makes me overwhelmed and I wanna do nothing.  it’s exhausting having a conscious.”   

I carefully peel the front door open, half expecting a boogity to be standing there, asking what took me so long.  But stillness.  A washing of silvery tones over the entire overly bright scene, as if it were graylight savings.  I cautiously step one in front of another, heeding the warnings of isolation as I leave everything behind.  I miss those days where something familiar would be always be around.  My tethered friend looks to me for answers.  “let’s keep going...”

There’s a suspicion the faders aren’t in sync.  The left light is way elevated, while the right people is extinct.  “this doesn’t add up.  did i drink too much last night?  i thought i only had one beer, but did i fuck up with more?  was the entire nights’ rememberance made up, as each minute of clarity shows itself?  i feel wobbly, hazy and on the brink of tossing up those desserts i ate last night.”  My eyes are mere dashes, covered only by their lids as the glow breaks through the flesh.  I struggle to understand what is happening to me, my body.

That’s when they came up from their hiding place.

A Year Of Writing... Sort Of.

A friend of mine started a personal writing project a few months ago, her intention to put something down on paper, everyday, for one year.  No minimum number of words, nothing on/off limits, simply a new exercise program for an old friend.

She put the announcement on facebook, citing it's harder to renege once it's out in the interspace.  I can relate.  I've gotten on that bus, but sometimes forgot to get off at the right stop.  whoops.  But she bravely offered to share her stories & commentaries, so I enthusiastically volunteered as a reader.  And in the first few emails, I found myself inspired but what she was doing and intrigued to try my hand at such an awesome, creative challenge!

I knew setting a daily bar wouldn't work for me.  Not because I think it's wrong, quite contrary as I think the determination is admirable.  But since starting this journal, all I think about is writing everyday, which reality has translated into occasional.  I don't want to commit myself to an unrealistic goal because that will only set me up for failure.  And then I'll get discouraged, which is not the point.

So I decided to do my own version, which other than time is nothing different I guess.  I'd follow her lead with no minimum number of words (which is swell when I sent four on a page) and nothing on/off limits.  But in terms of frequency, do it when I can.  keep it simple.  And I gotta say, it's been exceptionally rewarding!  I'm writing a little more, including a couple short stories I really dig.  The sharing between ourselves has also been an unexpected reward.  There is an intimate accountability, for this trusted space we've created; I crave it.

~~~~~

I write. I won't call myself a writer... Writer is reserved for someone who like, isn't me.  How in as much as I'd love to do discover my voice full time, it's easier to call it a fulfilling hobby.  Maybe that's why sharing selected tidbits is acceptable, because I'm working through the discovery of who I am and what do I want to say.

Be on the lookout.