So much to do to feel better.
On writing oneself out of dark places.
So much to do to feel better. Heavy the weight that swings the head low over the ailing body. Every heave toward the mouth of the cave a step that cracks, splits, and multiplies itself into a jagged stairway bathed in impartial grey light, silently watching as with each step forward, upward, you drive yourself infinitely deeper.
The lights flicker around the sharp edges in a rapid pulse between sixty and eighty percent. The tower is imperceptibly higher than where we are now. This stone is too heavy, high on our backs, it cuts at the knees, sucks our spirit out from within, leaves us brittle shells of what we once were. What we were is now a memory of a passing dream, a cool puff of sea air, a friend asking you an intimate question you do not want to answer for fear of hearing the truth spoken into existence.
Writing bursts forth in a rush.
Thoughts in the white water breaking toward the face, splintering the stream,
unfreezing crystals of halcyon days waiting to be recalled with due affection.
The mist, with its crisp kiss on the nose, the skin, youthful, springs to the touch.
I am alive.
And I know what it is to write, to express oneself so clearly,
Mr. Whoever You Are, with whatever name and place,
the character you have so carefully placed
atop your quivering head
like an easy beggar
here close to the ground
I tell you, the one who might care to listen:
“I know what it means to feel.
I know what it means to feel.
And my thoughts matter.
All of this matters.
My feelings matter,
because I matter.”
