Breaking Up the Dogfight
I'm in a state of blur. I want -
I don't know what I want. I wish I could write out something that would feel comforting and not trite. Not like whitewash. I'm just trying to get through, but somehow all this "trying" and "struggling" and "straining" and planning in my life is making my life not ALL that fun to live. Don't get me wrong, there's the rosy-fingered dawn in every direction I look. I'm happy most of the time and not unhappy the rest of the time, but I keep counting days in my head. I keep tapping my fingers and saying that when this is over, this'll be, and then when I finish that, it'll be...
I keep saying October, November, lil' bit o' December as fast as I can. Really. Like a mantra, an obsessed senioritis mantra.
But I am early. I'm wanting more speed in an already speedy case, something that's not owed to me. I'm waiting for Fortune's Wheel to turn. And Boethius seems to think that's a dumb way to get true happiness.
I never minded being alone until I went home and there was this talking. I talked until I was sick of my own voice. And now, up here, in my little room, there's this cliched deafening silence. This mutedness and my reel of lists, what needs to be done, what has to be where when. And while those things seem to get met, there's a lot of staring and hoping time will pass and I can get out of here. Of which there is no place to go but home again, home to the silence that comes after you've said what needs to be said.
Whatever was supposed to happen here, I've resolved to understand, isn't going to happen here. But secretly, I hope that letting go that belief will allow it to happen.
I feel like in the midst of this onslaught of assignments and blood and books I'm ready to be overwhelmed by another person, to be invaded, to have to answer calls, to have to be in charge, to ask those porcelain requests. But everything seems to say, not now, focus on your work.
Sometimes I try to give myself visions of his face. Last night because sleep was tearing my head back with vicious yanks, I think I saw Jesus, or at least a man with a ring of curled hair, a halo. I wonder if this is the wrong approach.
In my stories, girls meet boys over strawberries in the produce section, over funeral processions, over a large glass table and from there they tough it out. They're born together. They find their way, water droplets riveting down a window to merge, inevitably in the frame. It's natural.
I'm such an aberration. I don't want to be a vessel for the dreams of my psyche, for their lusty resolutions, their disasters and for myself watch clocks tick.
I have this fern and I'm wondering if it's absorbing some bad mojo. But it's still alive. I give it water and put it in the window. What else is there to do?
I think I'll manage. I'm in the window, while I sit I may just catch some light and grow.
