something different

Writing is hard right now. It’s sluggish and outpaced by my racing fatigue. I’m tried, and would like nothing more than to sit on the beach and watch the waves carry on as if nothing amiss has ever occurred. It’s a kind of slow falling. My head hitting the pillow and waking the very same moment with sun striking me in the eye. 

I miss the clouds and how they covered the sun, making it just that much more bearable to breath. Feels like living in the end of a movie, where the friends all went their separate ways and the treehouse burnt down. Went home to the empty house, so home it is not and home now becomes something to chase. To look for. It’s an unwanted adventure. 

Never thought I’d miss it like this, hoped I wouldn’t have to live it again. So writing is hard.  

Looked at the evidence of my absence and wanted to cry, because that was real. There was evidence. I’m caught up in my own rotation and I’d like to touch back down. But I don’t know how to take off the parachute. So I float on by, the mountains and meadows clear, unable to feel the green evidence of life. 

This kind of feeling, this unsanctioned pause, is not new to me; but I’d hoped it was old and not to return. I want so much I’m not even sure what it is anymore. I just know something is missing and I can’t put my finger on it. 

I’m not the same person I was a few weeks ago… I don't think the fire left me nicely this time. Without the fire it's all a little dim. The fire went on home but I stayed here, washed so clean I’m not sure it even happened. But happen it did and I almost miss the fire.

Because at least in the fire I felt like I was allowed to cry, that it was okay this was breaking me. Now I’m just lost, and still feel like too many people are looking at me. I knew this would break me, and reforge me into something I didn’t recognize. I just didn’t know it would take so long. Didn’t think it’d linger.  

So writing, feels like pulling out stitches and stuffing the holes full of dirt, and mud, and anything I can’t reach with my too short arms. All I’ve written prior to two weeks ago looks like the work of an alien. But this time I’m the one discovering a new planet, that person was the real human, I’m something different.