let's set up the scene.
flashes of conversation.
clips and key phrases.
but i can't even begin or finish a sentence without interruption,
because that would be far too good to be true.
it's like those dreams where you're screaming but nothing comes out.
the ones where you wake up terrified. sweating. sheets undone. bed a mess.
fighting in your sleep.
and so you'll sit very still, armed with technology, fighting off fatigue. coming up with any and every reason not to give in. or pace the room. or stay out far too late. or dance dance dance until the morning sends you to bed like the disciplinarian parent.
because, what's really happening, is that you are afraid to go back in there.
to sleep.
because silence is the court official swearing you in
and unlike those wagging tongues in waking life, your mind will be telling the truth.
the whole truth and nothing but the truth.
telling the truth about how you feel…
what you're afraid of…
what you want…
what you need…
what you think is going on…
what happened...
because, somewhere along the way, the dreams stopped being flights of fancy.
the adventurous planes grounded and are robotic hands putting puzzles together.
taking the old radio apart and putting it back together.
trying a thousand lock combinations.
with the stress of a speed drill.
and it feels like mcgyver.
and just as absurd.
because it's this war with mistrust and cynicsm.
they lie about saying they don't lie.
they tell you you're rising above it,
and there's just a noose around your neck.
which kicks to scenes of the past where the trustworthy ones dwell.
and death stole him.
to new life even, sure. but stolen nonetheless.
and it echoes on those walls the reminder…
there is none to guard me from the frost.
there is none to arrest the trampling feet.
running like a fugitive.
karma has the wrong name, i think.
i tried to spell it out. i couldn't make her understand.
and then i'm all A.D.D.
and refusing to be a victim i stood up on shaky legs. took a step and fell…
wake up and resume dream.
and i'm wrapping my hands to throw punches and hurling bottles that won't break.
i turned to see him there in wait.
defense unnecessary.
"let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth" i said.
"better than wine is your love." he said.
i was his lily among thorns.
he meant it, he said.
i was brave and vulnerable.
affection, like wine, fills you with a little courage.
and in the safety of an embrace, i am met with knives.
no one sees.
no one hears.
lack of evidence like tracks in falling snow
sabotaged by the plows in the morning.
blood-stained hands will go free.
now speak of foolishness to those childlike eyes that once believed
in those words that lost their meaning.
and only in your most condescending and apathetic tones so they fill with tears of shame.
i have met your cold shoulders and your blades.
do not send for me.
send them away.
exeunt.
[yes, all of them.]
The snow surprises me a little. And yet, it makes so much sense. It's the times I wish for snow that it won't come. The times I'd rather it not come… the times I am caught in disbelief… the times I shrug off the weather reports, I'll wake up to see it blanketing everything. And so this morning like a chilly extension of my white cozy comforter, there it was. I saw that work was closed, breathed a sigh of relief and went back to sleep. I keep having weird dreams and in them people give me advice. But none of it comes true. All this sleep without assistance. All this sleep propelled by sheer exhaustion. No allergy medications or chemicals telling my head to calm down a little bit right now. Besides, "I don't have the drugs to sort it out." It, being the deep magical sadness that follows me. The one that found me and claimed me and will not forget me irregardless of what encouraging words would be spoken or how often it was told to leave. Everyone has a thorn in their side. I don't propose I'm better off or worse off than anyone else. I woke this morning to the blanket of snow and a livid sea of tears determined to break the banks just beneath the surface. But for getting these words out, I feel it best to sit as quietly as possible, lest the beast unleash itself… he is prone to violence.
This week alone, I could lose track on my fingers the amount of times I've been asked to pray for someone. Or the times someone has asked for advice. Asked me to help keep them alive… And not dramatically, I mean the real, "Goodbye cruel world. Hey. I'm out. No thank you. and on my way, I'm gonna phone a friend to let them know I don't hate them." And out of my despairing heart some words of hope rose up and somehow these friends are breathing still. I am the girl who will be on her proverbial ledge, and instead of being talked down or back into the bedroom to safety, I am always asked to scale the wall to the next floor and help someone else back in, on my way.
There is this song by Laura Marling that haunts me a little… "Why fear death? Be scared of living. Hearts are small and ever thinning. There is no hope ever of winning. Oh, why fear death? Be scared of living."
I haven't prayed in a very long time. Well, that's not entirely true. But all my beliefs are waning. Not waning in the existence of God or spirituality or something. Not that I haven't beheld the movement of the divine in the lives of others in a supremely beautiful way. It's more the whole idea of Love Himself. There is no receiving of him, without giving out. Day after day after day I wake up just wanting to live life in some way that is full of meaning and ripe with love… with him. The small things. The big things. It's not a pursuing of good grand things or of happiness, but this trust that happiness will show up. These sweet little moments will arrive to be savored. Something good will happen when you work hard enough. All of this will pay off… work out. you know? But, day after day after day, my cup runs dry and I am met with swift kicks, rejection, I am passed over, forgotten, used with a thanks. There isn't much reciprocity. I hate being redundant. It bores me. So I stop talking. I stop asking why. I search for ways to change to make this better. My creative little mind runs rampant begging for new perspective. Easy. Only to find that is wrong. Each time I think that I actually mean something to someone, I am taught a lesson.
I always wanted the simplest things to become of my life. I am met with constant "no's"… and sometimes in that catch phrase "not yet". I am given just enough to get by, never more, maybe less. I am trapped. I asked for help to get out. So I changed my prayer to a request for help to get through. So I changed my prayer to a request to help me rest in the midst of the turbulence, to be thankful for what i have in want… So I ran out of ideas of wording it. I am tired of being treated badly. I am tired of feeling worthless. I am tired of writing things like this. I am tired of being stalked by sorrow and shame. And so, I have simply stopped.
I can't give up that quick.
