Thursday, February 26, 2009

Unearned Guilt

Turns out, I fell off the face of the Earth. So many things to do. So many important things. So many tedious things. So many infuriating things. So many lovely things. So many damn things, because I'm so addicted to being busy.

But somehow, I found solace in orange salt. I found it in pasta. I found it in Symone. I found it in open ears. I keep finding it in connection, because I'm so addicted to connection.

Still more, though.

I just keep thinking about myself, about everybody. I continue to be furious, but silently. I lull myself to sleep and I rest. Finally.

I feel like the air is so moist that I could drink from it simply by breathing.


Wednesday, February 11, 2009

Anniversary of Melancholy

It is raining today.

Four years ago today, it was raining as well. I remember.

The sky looked just as gray; the tree branches drooped then as they do now.

That day, I listened to slow, lilting songs just like I am doing today.

February 11th 2005 was very similar to today, February 11th 2009.

But I distinctly remember that four years ago today, the thing I fantasized about most was jumping off of the balcony and plummeting to my death.

Today, although I am feeling just as weary, I don't think I want to do that anymore.

Maybe that's what healing looks like.


Thursday, February 05, 2009

Light Finally

I know I've been grumpy with well nigh everyone lately, but not necessarily noticeably so. Grumpy with the system, grumpy because I'm alright now, grumpy with fickle things. A lot foggy and a lot soggy. I drank six cups of coffee on Monday night for no particular reason, although I did have a massive checklist to accomplish.

I really, really wanted to get some flowers because it's winter in Michigan, which means four months of frozen-solid and oppressive-white and numb-ears. And no flowers. And so I was reading a sentence in a book about a woman addicted to bittersweet rebellion. She would be flying back to England from Kenya soon, and she wondered if her flowers would mean anything to the next person who occupied her house and garden. Her character means little to nothing in the book; she merely serves as a symbol of a white-woman-black-servant relationship. However, she's the one I liked the most because she's the one who planted flowers; and she planted them, I think, so she could have some beauty back in her life after her marriage dried up and her love-affair died as well.

If my life wasn't replete with beauty, I'd say the same thing about myself. But maybe it's because I wanted to make something grow instead of...watching everything die?

But nothing is dying. Except justice as we think we know it. But it's not my story, it is my story; it's my story on crack. My story is always a smaller-scale version of something bigger going on and I almost don't feel justified enough to identify with these women. I had no physical injury. I had only five nightmares. I grew out of paranoia. I forgave. My panic attack was a little one. I'm only slightly destroyed. I just want to help. what? If I want to help change the world, I'm going to help change the world. I'm right behind you; I'm right beside you; I've shaken too. Somehow we grow up to be women who do things for ourselves, for the rest of the world; without the influence of attempted ruin but always growing stronger from denying that attempted ruin.

I've never encountered people with stories similar to mine. I've never felt like less of an alien. I've never felt so safe.

So there's a light, finally.