Sometimes I think that my life is a path
Wind and rain and casual travelers
All taken this care worn road
Erasing the lines
Until all someone might find beautiful
Who will find their way
To marvel and dream along my haunted shores
No longer shiny or new
Who will follow to paths ending
Dying on the edge of love
Go home to the empty
To a night filled with silence
“Have a fun weekend”, they say
All I have is this job and these words
Too heavy to bear
These weights forgiven
Tears too heavy
Fall from a single eye
Only one still able to cry
Edge of the map
Here be monsters
I don’t do well in the vacuum of knowledge. Not knowing why’s and reasons and thoughts eats away at me. “I’ll tell you later,” in all its variations is a cancer eating away at me in the narrow dark before the first rays of light. Or the variations of actions taken with no explanation as to why. Both cause their problems.
I know that I don’t express it. I know that I accept what information is given and keep going. But what else can I do? Demand more information than they are willing to give? Life isn’t so easy.
And I find myself in a predicament where my skills and experience is not easily seen. And I’m not the best when confronted with questions I haven’t thought about. Unless it’s asked by someone I trust, then it’s honesty and Intuition. So how do I sell my skills which are not evident by degrees or certification when I need a few minutes alone to formulate a response.
I don’t know what to do. I keep going forward with the gnawing feeling of impending failure and the thought that success might be just as bad. Looking for a way sideways or out but not finding it.
And still, those thoughts that more information would make me feel safe permeate and batter defenses which isolate me even more.
Recalls the wistful melancholy of might have beens and maybe possibles
My playlist sings of loss
Pull up favorites
Spin the wheel
Dance in hopes dashed reverie
Shuffle foretells misery
Like it reads my heart
Empty suffused darkness
Distilled in smoke stained notes
Each record clicks in place
In modern sacrifice
Mired in the present
Like a maze with no exit
And blood drenched wrong turns
Dead ends decorated by bones
What grows when thoughts of possible
When all seems bright
Rooms long closed open
Thoughts long dust and dusty
Hope bursts as bloom
Fed fat on spring and blood
These rooms pass time empty
Doors swing shut
Sighs like lamentation in the downstairs closet
Sleepy forms just waking
Turn over in their uneasy beds
And at the end
To bared steel
And a heart once whole
On the mend
So, Seasonal Affective disorder is a thing. And I have a version of that. But I’m weird, so mine kicks in during spring, the days are longer, and most people love that. Me, I just want a bit more night. A bit more clouds. I want it cooler and such. And really my path falls into that too. One can hardly worship night and Winter and not be affected by its opposite. So, I’m a bit more prone to depression or overreacting. If I’m going to overthink into the ground, it’s a bit more likely during that time.
I really only notice it in counterpoint to after the summer solstice. When I can feel energy flowing in, instead of out.
I feel powerful and more myself, more focused in this half of the year.
It’s just how it is.
There is a thing in movies and TV shows and in books where despite everything that the protagonist does, every action taken. Despite it all, the person they love is killed or dies. And it destroys me each time. It rips my chest open and for a minute it’s like the door is opening again and I see her, laying there, dying all over again. Every time.
No matter how much time passes, there are things that will trigger me back.
I’m torn between wishing I don’t experience that again and never wanting to get to the point where I feel nothing.
Because if I feel nothing, I will have lost that last piece of her.
But I also don’t want the person I love now to get the impression that I somehow love them them less. I love madly, deeply, completely. And I love you.
Its never enough. People either love you or they don’t and no matter how much you love them, how much you need to be the person to hold them, how much you want to protect them or keep them safe, it is never enough to change their minds. You could be amazing, intelligent, honorable and trustworthy. You could be learned and skilled in areas both carnal and not. And it still doesn’t matter. At the end of the night, they wave goodbye and walk into the arms of another. Or stand at such distance that, like an Escher painting, you never get closer.