I’m tired. Aren’t we all?
I’m tired of the complexity of thought. The depth of emotion. The brain that harbors the soul I possess. I'm tired. Aren’t we all? Sure. Yes. Why am I selfish? Stubborn with only myself. Self sabotage at its simplest and self sabotage at its most complex.
Writing is my passion. Writing is my calling. With that I have found that while passions never die they still sometimes fail to show up the way they want to . Passions are fearful of their potential. Callings are harder to pick up and say hello to though. Passions are not always welcomed but are always needed.
Just because something is needed does not make it welcome. Just because passions deserve a place in life does not mean they are given room to ground themselves. Just because will is strong, avoidance never fails to push the envelope with greater force.
I shake my head and wipe my brow. I sigh and even type the complaints – the why can’t I make myself write what I want? I know it is not because I cannot find the words, for they run rampant inside me. I know it is not because I fear the response of my words, for I know they pertain the truth in my feelings. I know it is not because I question their validity, for I know they portray my heart.
What I think I know, too, is how much easier it is to sleep unconsciously than to sit down and say that this is what I mean and it is set in stone. I cannot allow the end of anything. Not on my own watch. Cause I know, time and time again, perhaps I shall only allow things to end by their own hand – that way I will have no choice but to write about them then – they are over. There is not more to the story. But then – that’s just the nightmare I cannot fathom. Loss. Loss. Loss.
So I go to sleep again, avoiding the pain. But where’s the passion go from there? Locked in a room it was told it would be let out from once the story had its closing. But the curtains are cast and the cast has bowed and left the stage. The auditorium files out. It’s dark in the room – hiding all of its chairs and its stage and its meaning. It is nothing more than a regular bare room – who knows what it holds – well, only I. Because I won't let the reality that came from the show come to light. I wont debut the story because tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow I won’t be so tired.
The tomorrow is gone and pain is rampant and ravaging and proud and unafraid. And I, the keeper of the keys, am asleep with them chained to my knees – too foolish to speak what I mean.
Life is so fragile and its all I wish to write about and, in knowing that, I still worry I may not actually do so before it’s too late.