Unidentifiable

I can't find very much - they are under stacks of paper, unseen, unidentifiable. I should be able to see it. I know I put them there but I think they're just buried under the mountain of work and words, passages of mispelled and unstructured essays. 

I won't see it - but when I do, it will probably be undecipherable and I probably won't even remember why I wrote it. I can't remember it now come to think of it. I just can't.

I hold it all really tightly together. The words, I mean - I hold them so tightly in my mind and squashed between the day's work that they can't breathe. They don't come out and when they do, they're just jumbled and unidentifiable scribbles on paper with black ink blotches on the side. I can't read them or see them properly. 

So I now need to find them, as they sit tucked away under some coffee-stained agreement (which I really need to find) and maybe reread it again and try to make sense of what it all means. But it might just be they are words lost and now I just need to build them up again.

It feels, however, that I've held them so tightly that they've been crushed, and completely unidentifiable.

Story

I thought I'd written the story perfectly.

It felt perfect when I had the pen on the paper and let the words just spill out - they were perfectly arranged and articulated in every sentence. But then I destroyed it by tipping black ink all over the table and by watching helplessly as the darkness seeped into the script and all over the words I'd so carefully woven together.

By the way, did I mention that this is a story of two and not just some stupid fairy tale about Little Red Riding Hood? This was meant to be kept carefully under lock and key but I made a mess of it. Trying to wipe away the ink with my hands only made the black smudge and dismember what little words were left.

I think I said sorry in my haste, and tried to recover everything I could but I now accept it is gone. I remember so little of that story now - all the perfect scenes I'd painted with words are now in the dark and I can't see them any more.

But give me a chance - I'll write some more and correct the mistakes and undo the missing words to create new ones. And I promise I can, and I promise I will compose something more special then the one that went before.

Time to Go

It's time to go, honey.
The night is growing dark,
the children are now in bed
tucked away under covers
protecting them
from imagined monsters and demons
that roam their minds
and maybe it's time we left them
to grow up and grow away.

It's time to go, honey.
There's a fire eating at the edges
devouring through the middle
and it's sadness honey - our sadness
telling us that we can make it;
it pulls a veil over our eyes
and disappears into the night
leaving us blind
and stumbling in the dark.

It's time to go, honey.
It isn't working any more
and it wouldn't matter no more
about the words we would say
or the gestures we could make,
everything is now hushed
broken beyond our grasp
and the sadness is only what
we share; and it can never be the same.

It's time to go, honey
It's time for me to go.

Vignette #8

Let's talk about how you're feeling today.

Um...okay. I guess that's why I'm here. I'm feeling okay.

Silence

What do you mean by 'okay'?

I'm fine. Just okay.

How would you like today to go?

I don't know. I'm not sure what to expect.

We're here today to help you. But in order to do that, you need to say a little more. How are you really feeling?

Silence

I feel everything. Everything from sadness to anger to loneliness. I feel everything. But happy.

Okay. Do you want to run me through these emotions?

I feel sad in the mornings and I then go for a run and the sadness becomes anger which I pound into the pavement. And when I get home, I feel lonely because I've just fought an emotional battle on my own and there's no one there to help me.

Do you know where these emotions come from?

They come from  inside me - the very core of me. It's turmoil all the time. I can't help it.

Silence

Would you like to talk me through the running?

Twiddling of thumbs

It's...it's how I punish myself but reward myself at the same time...a reward because it gives me a chance to battle the feelings and kill the anger. But it's a punishment at the same time because I know I'm hurting myself. I like the pain of running with my injured ankle and the pain of running on an empty stomach. It's an accomplishment. I really do...like it.

Do you think you could be relapsing?

Silence

I don't know.

Because you..

I can sit here all day. And you wouldn't come by
like you promised.
I could pray so hard each day
but you wouldn't no the difference.
Can I make a suggestion
that you do not come back and
see me anymore?
Because you obviously don't care
so why should I in return.

No Love, Honey

No love would come of us, honey
no love would come of us.
We're too rigidly strung by life
held by mere wire which bends not
to accommodate or carress
the bodies we swore each other to.

No love would come of us, honey
the dainty lights of Kensington
shine no sentimentality on us.
We're too cold to the touch
hardly living to breathe hot air
which disappears in winter's night.

No love would come of us, honey
no love at all.
And if I could undo everything
and never have met you, I would,
and live a lonesome life
never knowing at all.

Losing Sight

You're no longer tangible
in my dreams, just fragile,
weak and blurred by distance.
We were
never meant to be
this far, so out of reach,
so out of hand, so much
a stranger to each other.

I don't believe
that you can't see me
standing here
waiting to hold you again,
keep the cold away
keep you out of harm's way,
but you grow alien to the touch.
I don't know these arms
nor these veins that pulse life.

We become two almost-wholes
broken and withered
and no love to patch us up.
We become estranged
isolated from warmth,
and as we seek separate paths
we lose sight of
something that was once
tangible
to make way for something new
something we cannot yet see.