Don’t be deceived by the deafening digital silence. I’ve been writing copiously, usually on the most sleepless of nights. Pixelated reams of nonsense or otherwise obfuscatory metaphors have come bursting out of me like the shit out of my precious daughter’s nappies. And it’s all been just that: the yellowest of shit. I know you’ll understand how I’ve been too scared to publish most of it, for fear of being completely seen through. Or, worse yet, seen and believed that is all there is to it. To me. Shallow shallow language for a shallow little girl, not even deep enough to tickle a babe’s chubby ankles. This is some of what I’ve felt and, having put the sum of it out here, I feel a bit too exposed and cold (but you know what we say about the cold).
I’ve been thinking maybe anger becomes overrated past a certain point. Sometimes it hits like foul flatulence released noisily into a crowded gathering, making everyone a little annoyed and uncomfortable until it disperses and only awkwardness lingers. I feel like I’m getting everything so wrong this time around. For once I don’t know what else to say - life has become something besides my own, which makes it all the more difficult for this long-time naval-gazer to examine it properly and report back on. If I had a mentor to turn to right now I’m sure she’d ask one question over and over and over again: what exactly are you trying to say?
Then say it.
The Grace of God has come down from on high to sit right next to me, just like I’ve been pleading for so long. I, in turn, sit here behaving as though she is a stranger I have never seen before. What am I to say to her this time? What am I not to say? Something better left off these bare white pages either way. I don’t know what I’m becoming and I’d rather not explain whatever it is as I am unfurling & discovering.
