Well, Baby, We don't have FOREVER
This is my time, and I had always hoped to be able to make use of it, and maybe finally, finally, I have the strength to sacrifice the smallest thing to my writing. I know so many people have lost so much more and gotten nothing in return.
I've been a writer for ages, but a writer in name and not in deed. I made a lot of excuses for myself in the name of self-protection. There were so many labels and so many years of everyone expecting the next Great American Novel out of me...not that they would sit and read it even if it was or that maybe I just want to write about swords clashing and fainting princesses and the triumph of one odd culture over another. There just was that opinion that as soon as my education was complete, I'd just turn in my manuscript and accept my praise and laurels. Because otherwise, what the fuck was I doing with all that time I was alone and not socially progressing. I had to be getting good at something.
And I was, it just wasn't writing. I was getting good at driving a spike down into my psyche and touching with its rusted tip, the most sensitive and unknown cauliflower of matter, zapping it and trying to call it to life, not realizing I was killing it as well as my will to work. I was getting good at finding walnut shells to climb in and float down streams, away, away, away. I was and am some kind of genius in the act of personal exodus. There is no fire to hold my feet to, I will always find a way out. That's the message of Thumbelina, though for her it was more hopeful, there is always a way out.
But I want a morning ritual. Witch of the Morning Dawn, saw the sunrise and felt her body return the sun's new glow. Knew herself in the revelation of return, of waking where you fell on a new day, on a chance, a bed of leafy rosiness, those yellowed pink petals (the scent of saints leaving flesh for spirit) breaking and wafting their given odor unashamed of their gift and skill at the breakdown. Roses were made for pleasurable destruction.
I want the lit candle of the flashing screen. The warm bath of the washed face, the promise of a good meal after the aim is done. It is an aim, a direction to go in.
