March 3, 2014 § Leave a comment
And so, I write. To give reason and form to the uncoupling links of my life. To attempt to make sense of the suddenly shifting ice beneath my feet. To put into sound and motion the interior collapse of me: the chunks of ice inside that are breaking off and breaking up and tipping down and bobbing on their sides until they reach the final arc of their swing and settle back down into place on the water of my life, where hopefully the jagged edges will smooth and reunite. If I write fast enough, perhaps I can get ahead of those shattering ice floes, eclipse them in a blaze of typing, of thinking not about the emotions but merely the words and how they sound, rolling them around on my tongue, tasting all at once the smooth sweetness and slight acidity of language and expression. And so, I write:
There are times now I feel like I’ve lost the words , like birds escaping from my mouth when I open it to speak. The flutter of their wings in my throat, that raw taste of saltwater on my tongue. I can’t talk for all the birds around me. Birds with memories shining on their wings fly away from me, disappear into thin air. Come back, birds. Don’t leave me. Don’t leave me without words.
I’ve never been in dread of so many things before in my life. Silence. Lent. Night. The last page of a book, when I look up from another world. Summertime. Facebook. Memories.
Where am I now? I’m thinking that the immediacy of the present was a heavy price to pay for the dreams of the future. To give up on something good and solidly in front of me, because of that unstable and misty future is the hardest struggle of my life. We none of us know what may happen tomorrow, or the day after, or in ten years time. I have a dream. But I also had a life. I didn’t even get to say goodbye to his parents. I gave something up to be free to gain something more, but it’s farther than ever from me.
Maybe this wouldn’t be so hard if there were more than total silence in my soul right now. Where did you go, God? Where are you?