I’m forced to look at where I stand… And yet, I don’t recognize the two feet that brought me to this spot. Who am I becoming? What scares me is the idea that I could have abandoned parts of me, released certain passions, neglected certain desires, and decided to let pieces of me go unknowingly, unconsciously. There’s bits of me, of life, that I am proud of… Want to hold onto. But, if I don’t consciously choose what to let go of, how do I prevent myself from losing me? When do I turn around? Is it too late? How do I get back to the place that is mine?
Some say you carry yourself with you always… Within your heart is your home… But what if your surroundings have grown and shifted so much so that on your busiest day you failed to notice the changes taking place, the dust settling in the corners of your eyes, the rooms becoming stacked with boxes and debris, the leak in the bathroom, the shadows in the back room? The absence of that once present curl of your lip? My fingers are rusty play things and my mind a harrowing hall. Words deceive my tongue and push through to my… to my… What’s my anything?
Hurt. I play through the hurt that is inside and laugh without discretion like I’ll laugh at my work, or lack thereof later. But it feels as though it’s not working. There are no gears grinding, no hinges to oil. There just seems to be an empty room with and empty dresser and a photoless picture frame. An old friend used to room here, I think. An old friend, or enemy, or comrade, or poser. And the record skips a beat. Beat… beating my head in like a drum. If only I had the sticks… It sticks. But nothing is sticking. I’m just a void, a vessel, a barren trestle… With feet dangling off. Waiting for the train to rattle my bones and scare the life back into me. Force me to run and save myself from myself. Call it self preservation.
Created: Aug 05, 2012Carla G. Document Media