And I am feeling lost. Staring at my computer. The words have left, taken their ball and gone home. And here I sit and stare. This is nothing new. All writers know this. And I feel the push, the drive to create something brilliant and insecurity that simmers under the surface saying, “it will be crap.” And so I sit and stare. Lost in my circle. Create. I can’t. I have to. It’ll suck. Time slowly ticking. And I sit and stare. All the characters that I danced with yesterday, even during breakfast, have moved on with their day, gone to their jobs, met their lovers at seedy hotels, boarded airplanes for paradise. And I sit and stare. Tick tock goes the clock. Eyes fade and the screen is a blur of white like staring into the sun. Trying to fight time, like a boxer trying to get the last punch in before the bell. Trying to find inspiration, like an artist sees the world. I look over my outlines. Over my ideas. My list of projects. And nothing comes. Time has stopped like watching the clock on the last of day of school before summer vacation. Eternity has set in. My mind wanders like a leaf in the wind. My creative gone and forgotten like a prisoner on death row. So, I sit and stare. Force myself to wait. To be patient. Like a child waiting for mailman. Like a dog waiting for dinner. Like people waiting for the bus. I know it will come. I just have to wait. Patiently.
when my ego runs wild, doing it’s best to convince me of all the ways I am broken, lost, damage, no good, not worthy. Feeding my fears, insecurity by insecurity. Unrelentless judgment (of everyone and everything) Ridicule. Shame and guilt. She’s can be cruel and heartless. The constant reminders of all the reasons why I must do and be and on and on she goes…
He sits on the toilet. The sun barely peeking over the horizon. Shorts around his ankles, his face buried in his hands. Brushing his hands through his hair, sitting up, shoulders back. “I can do this!” He could hear the doubt, moreover feel it in his body. The ton of self doubt glistening rocks sinking and weighing down not only his stomach but his spirit too. The lump of fear clogging his throat, that locked away his confidence. “I can do this! Fake it til you make it, right?” Pulling up his shorts, standing tall, flushing the toilet along with his dreams. His shoulders deflat. He now stands clutching the bathroom counter and facing himself in the mirror. He stared into the stranger’s eyes. Questioning the wrinkle ridden face. Who was this man? Where had the man he known gone? Shifting his gaze down, softly leaving his lips, “no I can’t. “
“I am telling you, you have to believe me. Listen to me! They are alive. They are waiting. Please!”
No one ever listened to her. Noticed her. Cared for her.
On this night. This dark and dreary, rain soaked night. Water puddling around her ankles, she pleaded with the rush of people running here and there. She tugged on their coats, grabbed at their ankles. They didn’t notice. They rushed with their umbrellas, their papers, their heads covered. They rushed, pushing and hurrying. The only thing on their minds was getting out of the rain.
She knew the rain was just the beginning. But as usual no one saw her. No one cared. They just rushed by. Lost and oblivious.
The pain is excruciating. I wake up in the middle of the night crying. Curled up in a ball and praying that it just goes away. I’m weak and tired and yet I continue to lie to myself and anyone who listens that I am not sick. I have too much to do and I do not have time to get sick. Time to care for myself. I have a family. I have a career. I cannot slow down. So, I push on. And yet the pain lingers. It is never gone. Some days it just sits there like a minor annoyance. Other days it attacks me. Sharp stabbing pain. I can’t eat. I can’t sleep. I am slowly withering away. No, I am not sick. I am stressed. Lie after lie. Two months of denial. I am forced to go to the doctor. A promise to rest the minds of those who care. Yes, the doctor confirms I am sick. But there is really nothing I can do but wait until a surgeon has time. It doesn’t matter, I have grown accustom to life like this. Numb. Full of excuses. Even after the surgery I swear, I still get the pains, not as bad, but they still come. As if reminders that I need to care for myself. Listen to my body. Hear her wisdom. To stop ignoring her. For she has been with me forever. The wisest friend I have.
Writing day 17- write a love story in 5-6 sentences
Sun shines bright almost blinding. Dew kissing each blade of grass, each petal. Awakening to the morning. Petals open to great the sun. Dancing together each day until the moon comes and the sun goes away.
Day 16 of Write Yourself Alive: Something I enjoy doing outside of writing.
I live for these moments, I really truly do. Except that I have taken at least half of them and most likely closer to 80% of them for granted. I get too caught up in my mind, what I have to do, what needs to be done, why did I do that or not do that. The future and past keep me occupied. Keep me away from you and you are what I cherish. But in those moments. When I stop the never ending stream of thoughts. When I stop and breath in the moment. When I allow myself to be. These are the moments that I long for. The moments that stay with me, keep me going and make me who I am. Funny how in these moments, nothing matters but the moment. I couldn’t tell you that the smell was always the same. Because it’s not. Sometimes it is stall and old, like an old bar. Other times like fresh cut flowers. Each moment has its underlying current of excitement, anger and yes, at times boredom. The only thing that each of these moments has in common is us. Those moments when we are truly in sync. Harmony.