Incomplete


Where have the words gone? You might ask. (Probably not.) But it’s something I’ve been asking myself. Where is the passion and fury to note down little slices of life that, if not written, would otherwise be forgotten? I had thought. (*have thought.) I think, all the time, and these pass through like lightening, like slow rolling storms, like eyes following the horizon. In passing.

It’s not that I haven’t tried. There are so many drafts. Just waiting. Waiting to be discarded. So many moments I wanted to write down, to remember, to acknowledge its existence. But the moment is gone. That particular feel has faded. And I turn lazy.

oh.so.lazy.

I was driven to start a post about Friday morning. About lying on my swing, letting the sun seep under my sweater. Letting my face redden and the buds of sweat burgeon. I wanted to write about the song I was listening to. About the lyrics. About the time it transported me to. A time in my mind, a time yet to be created, but a time I so desperately wanted to remember.

(Here is the song if you care to listen: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lEUgORVsECs)

I wanted to write about the deep sadness some news brought me. News not even really linked to my life, but linked to people from my life. News of age and disease. I wanted to find a way to let that person know the sorrow I felt. But I didn’t know how. I suppose a hug would have sufficed had the opportunity presented itself. But it didn’t. I’m sorry, I want you to know that there’s a cup of tears labeled with your story. I am so so so sorry.

This morning, I stared at the patch of land that used to be green. Now chopped away for harvesting all that remains is stubble of leftover stalks. Yellowing. Browning. Saddening. The seasons they come and the seasons are passing and I stood there for a while feeling…melancholy.

And I wanted, (perhaps even needed) to write about negativity. About how they happen in bursts. About the random un-linked series of un-positives that leaves me so drained. That make me want to burrow into my blankets and hibernate. The deep frustration that not even puppy licks and puppy breath can revive me from.

I wanted to write about the things that make me want to cry. The inconvenience of tears. The controlling of emotions. The allowing of friends to let all the everything-not-good go further and further down a bottle. I suppose, appropriately, I also wanted to write about hangovers.

So where have the words gone?

They’ve melted into editing. Into infusing my words with someone else’s thoughts. Like indigo dyes that blend and become second to dyes that are synthetic. They’ve been printed and spilled over the books I’ve been reading. Books that excite my mind, books that fill me with anxiety over what’s to come, books that fill my head with ideas and opinions and questions and answers about the human existence.

And the words.

They’ve been drowned in conversation. Forced into one of the most obvious forms of communication. Forced to fill space and weak broadband connections. Shoved into hours of talking because there is no option to just be. Just be just be just be.

I’ll be thankful when words come back. When they flow. When they don’t leave me fragmented and incompl…

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