I woke up this morning, took a look around at my work space, and instantly felt the sun pouring into my spirit. I ended up declaring it a writing kind of day and spent some time at Fort Funston doing what I do best.
I
combed the shore from one end to the other. I got close to the waves
and stood still to watch them make their way toward me. I thought about
the weight of the water, how heavy it must be and how peaceful it could
be. I played with the dogs of a few strangers. Apparently they liked
me. They must have liked me if they were so inclined to lean their
soaking wet and muddied fur bodies against my bare legs. (I liked them,
too.) I even took off my shoes and felt the sand underneath my feet
and in between my toes. Everything was picture perfect for a Thursday
afternoon.
Except it wasn't.
I
was present, but there was a part of me that wasn't. All I have felt
for the last six days is a gaping hole in my stomach that is sucking
moments of my life into oblivion. I have been trying to fill this void
with everything I can, with whomever I can, but to no avail. It is as if I am performing on a
never-ending stage. The lights turn on every morning and I am pushed to
act as if everything is fine, as if I am some heroine in a damn play.
Yes, everything is fine if you're not counting my invisible bruises, my
under-the-skin wounds, and my existential absences in everyday life.
I
am tired. My
demons are too many and my angels are too few. I just want to fall
unto sleep. The best kind of sleep where people, places, and sounds do
not have the ability to wake me before I am ready.
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