I’ve been feeling restless lately. I haven’t been writing much and what I have been writing feels like leftovers. I have a bunch of work out in the world awaiting a decision and I can’t seem to settle until I know, you know? In an effort to keep my mind busy I try to come up with new book ideas. The latest is a book of letters I’ve written to myself, aptly titled, Letters To Myself. Digging around in some old files I found this one*, befitting to my feelings of late.
Monday, September 28, 2009
She Said (to no one in particular):
If I were still a child these dreams would feel more real. I’m sure I’d be able to taste them even. Or perhaps take out blank sheets of paper and draw them into reality, with colored pencils or markers or crayons. However, I am not a child. I am a woman now. A woman with voices in her head that won’t hush, feelings that won’t sleep or give way or die quietly, in peace. I sit outside and feel the air on my skin and sometimes the quiet is like a knife sliding against my throat and I see my dreams fall down the front of my shirt like smooth and thick drops of blood. Sometimes I am startled awake in the dead of night by the sound of my flesh aging. Sometimes I am struck dumb in mid-sentence with things I should have said years ago to people who are too far gone to hear me now. Sometimes I feel my heart race so rapidly that I know if it had a voice it would scream. Some would call this a panic attack and they would only be partially right, because there is panic in deed, but only because there is so much left to do and so much that will never be done. It’s these words that will be the death of me you know. It’s these words, all of the words in the whole world that trouble me so. All the ones I’ve said, all the ones I’ve longed to say, they are piling up against my chest and in my skull and my strength is worn thin.
My mom said that sometimes when she’s high up she has the urge to jump and I thought she was crazy. I think I now know what she meant. I always have the urge to run. Good things don’t last, they aren’t made to and trouble with people is they are always trying to prove that fact wrong. We are always trying to cage up the good stuff and save it for later instead of taking it in right then for right now as it is intended. I always have the urge to run. I keep thinking that there is a better version of me waiting to be set free from someone’s cage and I want nothing more than to find her.