On not writing
What if I wrote about not writing, the why’s and hows are not enough; at best they are guesses. Trying to pin down a brain trying to float away. How do I write about this space that bores me to be with for too long; who can I blame for this disappointment — how some brains get lost in the middle of things and that is terrifying.
How do I write about how little I trust myself with hope buried underground; where is the autopilot in standing still. In forgetting my own history. Of feeling lacking for too long, waiting to prove myself right. When words will not stay under my pen.
Where is the poetry in exhaustion, in tiring of being tired; when steps require waiting and there is nowhere to flee; lost in myself. Filled with far too many I don’t knows. When there are no questions or answers. Just absence and a grief for what I fear will not be. I bury my hope. To keep her safe. She sends herself further underground.
She loses her words, only left with a distant moan; afraid she is hoarse from years of screaming. Is stillness any different from giving up — when focus is lost and words are weighted down by weariness.
Will words convince a brain trying not to move too fast? Lest it be seen after far too many attempts at its silencing. Where do the words go when she is gone? Is there a story in standing still, in forcing movement?
I am impatient with absence. With presence. With a fog that will not lift. That threatens with uncertainties and lingering fears waiting to be proved right.
Who will pilot this vessel through the storm, against the rocks, into a deep starless night?