Force
Trying to get to sleep this Sunday morning. I'm going to have to force myself to start writing, to find the voice that's slipped and stalled under the weight of the years of silence. A wonder if these fingers still have stories to tell, but I'm finding them, I can feel all this crashing back. Writing always comes when life rips apart at the soft spots - comes from the cracks and crevices, the dark places. Comes from pain, and for the last five years, I've been numb, there's been nothing. Returning to the north is painful - leaving friends, security, family. Waking up in Massachusetts is like lifting myself out of freezing river water - a huge gasp, wide awake, acutely aware of the frozen air slicing through my lungs. It's life. I can't keep my eyes down anymore. I've had long enough - too long. Feeling is back, emotions are coming back, only right that words will slowly find their way through my fingers.
Just - just going slow, so I don't shut down again and slip back into that frozen coma. So much waste, but life underwater has its benefits. Float frozen in time with no one to shake you and scream that you're missing it, you're missing everything.
Just - just going slow, so I don't shut down again and slip back into that frozen coma. So much waste, but life underwater has its benefits. Float frozen in time with no one to shake you and scream that you're missing it, you're missing everything.