The air has cleared, the smoke has risen finally, and in it's wake...
...is the quiet clutter of bodies amid the soft shrieks of carrion-eaters.
So many late nights weigh on my mind...
Almost every single significant talk I've ever had with any of my friends has happened in the dead of night, the cool soft/harsh grey haze before dawn, or the velvet blue-black of night when dawn seems its farthest and morning may not come after all....
The warmth of a balcony in summer, when the heat has finally mellowed and the sweet warmth is broken by crickets that fade until even their songs have stopped, when the occasional car is the only disruption to the musings of late night, the harsh questions of reality.
The Dungeon in a wash of too white light, somehow softened by the hour, when the air is thick and hazy from cigarette smoke and the t.v. finally off or mute after the night's offerings...the murmur back and forth, the stifled giggles and/or tears that have to be muffled so as to not awake the Others, to not let the world intrude on the scrap of isolated sanctuary that was offered in the night.
More recently, the sage green of a couch, the gold halo of light from the lamp on the end table, the air still hazy from cigarette smoke (because some things haven't changed), perhaps the intrusion of a soft fluffy black shadow onto a lap or pressed warmly against a sigh, and the ramblings of a broken/troubled/mending/breaking/fixed mind as I stumble for meaning, for clarity.
I used to be so eloquent. I used to know everything. Or at least, I had an educated guess. And even when I didn't I could make some observation or witty remark, offer or receive some comfort, cold or otherwise, to push aside the blackness and then, the light of dawn finally chased away the last questions...when either the sweet arms of sleep or the warm liquid pull of coffee could chase away the doubts for a few moments, because this was just a phase, just a phase, and my life was going to get back together any minute.
But in the darkest hour tonight, I realized that this might not be a phase, this is as healthy as I'll ever be, and my life might not ever get in order. And that might just be okay, eventually.
But the words are gone. They slip and slide in my mind until I'm forced to ramble, to tangent and babble and go back and forth from the real point of the conversation like the tide coming in and receding until I get it, or I'm too tired to try anymore. My mind is not my own, sometimes, and the ready grasp on language seems to slip sometimes. I don't even know what the hell I'm trying to talk about when I'm upset, or what the problem might be, as the reader might have noticed if anyone's read this far.
Does it really matter if this is good as it gets? Not really.
Am I happy? Mostly. Working on more than that, I guess.
Do I want to change? Does it matter if I want to? Fairly certain I will at some point whether I want it or not. So sure, why the hell not?
Above all, though, I want words back. I want language. I want to be able to change the meaning of a piece of paper by the precise juxtaposition of ideas, the strange dichotomy of thought that has always made me happy, whether or not anyone else has ever liked my writing. I liked it. I miss it.
I just want the spark back. I don't want to be this weak fumbling thing striving desperately to clasp the fae-fire of inspiration that used to burn inside my head, my chest, my hands....
I want the compulsion/obsession/need/want that predetermined a night of keys clattering, music pounding in my ears and head and body as I tapped and sang and typed and jangled away at some project. The finished product was never it, the process was everything, and I never noticed how much it made me feel and be and think and love and live until I lost it.
Am I hollow now? Maybe.
Is the spark lost forever? I hope it's just dormant, an ember hiding amongst cold ash that just needs a gentle breath of air and some fuel to let it lick the timbers once more.
I just...want. I'm this needy, wanting, weak pile of impulse and emotion. Direction, motivation, inspiration, whateverthefuckyouwanttocallitation, I need it. Somehow. Some way.
So, this post is brought to you by the letter Q and the number 23.
I'm out.
So many late nights weigh on my mind...
Almost every single significant talk I've ever had with any of my friends has happened in the dead of night, the cool soft/harsh grey haze before dawn, or the velvet blue-black of night when dawn seems its farthest and morning may not come after all....
The warmth of a balcony in summer, when the heat has finally mellowed and the sweet warmth is broken by crickets that fade until even their songs have stopped, when the occasional car is the only disruption to the musings of late night, the harsh questions of reality.
The Dungeon in a wash of too white light, somehow softened by the hour, when the air is thick and hazy from cigarette smoke and the t.v. finally off or mute after the night's offerings...the murmur back and forth, the stifled giggles and/or tears that have to be muffled so as to not awake the Others, to not let the world intrude on the scrap of isolated sanctuary that was offered in the night.
More recently, the sage green of a couch, the gold halo of light from the lamp on the end table, the air still hazy from cigarette smoke (because some things haven't changed), perhaps the intrusion of a soft fluffy black shadow onto a lap or pressed warmly against a sigh, and the ramblings of a broken/troubled/mending/breaking/fixed mind as I stumble for meaning, for clarity.
I used to be so eloquent. I used to know everything. Or at least, I had an educated guess. And even when I didn't I could make some observation or witty remark, offer or receive some comfort, cold or otherwise, to push aside the blackness and then, the light of dawn finally chased away the last questions...when either the sweet arms of sleep or the warm liquid pull of coffee could chase away the doubts for a few moments, because this was just a phase, just a phase, and my life was going to get back together any minute.
But in the darkest hour tonight, I realized that this might not be a phase, this is as healthy as I'll ever be, and my life might not ever get in order. And that might just be okay, eventually.
But the words are gone. They slip and slide in my mind until I'm forced to ramble, to tangent and babble and go back and forth from the real point of the conversation like the tide coming in and receding until I get it, or I'm too tired to try anymore. My mind is not my own, sometimes, and the ready grasp on language seems to slip sometimes. I don't even know what the hell I'm trying to talk about when I'm upset, or what the problem might be, as the reader might have noticed if anyone's read this far.
Does it really matter if this is good as it gets? Not really.
Am I happy? Mostly. Working on more than that, I guess.
Do I want to change? Does it matter if I want to? Fairly certain I will at some point whether I want it or not. So sure, why the hell not?
Above all, though, I want words back. I want language. I want to be able to change the meaning of a piece of paper by the precise juxtaposition of ideas, the strange dichotomy of thought that has always made me happy, whether or not anyone else has ever liked my writing. I liked it. I miss it.
I just want the spark back. I don't want to be this weak fumbling thing striving desperately to clasp the fae-fire of inspiration that used to burn inside my head, my chest, my hands....
I want the compulsion/obsession/need/want that predetermined a night of keys clattering, music pounding in my ears and head and body as I tapped and sang and typed and jangled away at some project. The finished product was never it, the process was everything, and I never noticed how much it made me feel and be and think and love and live until I lost it.
Am I hollow now? Maybe.
Is the spark lost forever? I hope it's just dormant, an ember hiding amongst cold ash that just needs a gentle breath of air and some fuel to let it lick the timbers once more.
I just...want. I'm this needy, wanting, weak pile of impulse and emotion. Direction, motivation, inspiration, whateverthefuckyouwanttocallitation, I need it. Somehow. Some way.
So, this post is brought to you by the letter Q and the number 23.
I'm out.