"Dark, dark is all I find for metaphor..."

Inert, my Muse and I sit on opposite ends of the couch; a marriage gone sour.
Why don't you love me? I want to ask her.
It's not that we've never fought before; we have and reconciliation was always waiting in the wings. But this time, it's different... We haven't made-up, but I haven't stopped writing. That's the problem; the words still flow and I am shocked by their mediocrity.

My words have reached a staleness that perturbs me. For a while now, I've been unable to shake the feeling that my repertoire is 3 songs long and I just sing them over and over, unable to learn a new melody. I'm surprised those around me don't clap their hands over their ears and run out of hearing range.

The only beauty I can find, as of late, is laced in the words of others, famous or otherwise. And then further endeavouring seems so pointless: why bother when everything has already been expressed so eloquently?

I've felt my abilities dwindling the past few months, and I can no longer ignore their vanishings. I look my ramblings squarely in the face and deem them 'passable'.
Oh! I just so desperately want to write something and to feel that deep, tranquil, satisfying feeling that it is good. I haven't felt that way in a distressingly long time.


Please don't think I'm posting this merely to get attention and your assurances to the contrary. I write what I feel... and this is what I'm feeling now.

It is what it is.



I borrowed Rainer Maria Rilke's Letters to a Young Poet/The Possibility of Being from the library today. So far, it is full of beauty and wisdom. I don't know if it will help my blue funk, but I think it will offer some solace, at least.




{The title of this post is a line from the poem 'Interim' by Edna St. Vincent Millay. The 1st picture is by and of me, and what I'm leaning against is my poster which is the entire play of 'Hamlet'. The 2nd picture is also by me and is the text of the Rainer Maria Rilke poem, 'Autumn', though I'm not sure who the translation is by.}

out of sorts

I've been feeling out of sorts, as of late.
I've been wishing I could tear myself into thousands of tiny, insignificant pieces.
Or I wish I could shatter my heart like a china plate and make mosaics with the shards; even if I can't make something beautiful at least it would be different.

I just need something new to look at, that's all.

"I know what you mean about wishing that somebody wasn't there, though. It's usually, it's myself that I wish I could get away from. Seriously, think about this: I have never been anywhere that I haven't been. I've never had a kiss when I wasn't one of the kissers. Y'know, I've never gone to the movies, when I wasn't there in the audience. I've never been out bowling, if I wasn't there, y'know, making some stupid joke. I think that's why so many people hate themselves. Seriously, it's just they are sick to death of being around themselves."

~Jesse, Before Sunrise


My worn out, green-flecked emotions have been flaring up again. Mix in a pinch of apathy, a good dose of loneliness and a tumult of hormones and you have the mess known as me.

While some things have gotten better, some have just gotten worse. Though I'm no longer the unstable mess I was this winter, I've grown complacent. Change is something that needs to be worked at, even after it's already happened. I suspect we never truly finish changing, or growing rather. I need to pay more attention to myself, my emotional and spiritual well-being seems to slip under my radar too often. That needs to stop...


-'It All Got Worse' by Destry-
(my current favourite song)

Sorry, this post is rather moany. But what are blogs for, right? I almost disabled comments on this which is something I've considered doing many times but never actually done. I don't want anyone feel they have to or should respond to my pathetic complaints, but at the same time, I thrive on hearing from my blogging friends. Maybe I'm over-thinking this... (But I just may do a post without comments one of these old days, just you wait and see! :P)

{Picture taken from the text of the book "Home" by Marilynne Robinson.}

my dreams

These days I've been waking up with my dreams still tangled in my hair. Every morning I painstakingly comb them out of my curls; being careful not to shatter them for my dreams are brittle things {like dried flowers, tiny bird's nests, and glass tears}.

Once untangled, I slip most of the dreams into my abandoned doll's tea set for safekeeping. I know they will be protected in the small sugar bowl and teapot that once held my girlhood fancies.

But the most cherished dreams I do not store away as I should. Instead, I tuck them in the hollow at the base of my neck.


The forgotten dent we all havethat almost seems like a thumbprint left by some greater being.

Throughout my days, touching the dreams that nestle there brings me content.
Sometimes I give in and let them consume me - they are the only sweetness in my bland days.
It is dangerous, I know. These dreams belong to the night where sunlight can't cause them to fade away.
But as long as I keep a dusting of moonlight in my soul surely they will not perish.
{And perhaps they, in turn, will keep me from perishing as well.}





(Postscript: The words have returned as I knew they would. But they have brought luggage with them... Ah yes - hello insecurities. Why, oh why must you travel with my inspiration? It seems I can't have my words back without you grabbing my ankle with your cold little hands.
So, the good news is - I am writing again! The bad news is - nothing I write sounds very good to me. *sigh* It's a vicious cycle.)

{Pictures found here and here.}

An E.J.B. Poem

 











She dried her tears and they did smile
To see her cheeks' returning glow
How little dreaming all the while
That full heart throbbed to overflow

With that sweet look and lively tone
And bright eye shining all the day
They could not guess at midnight lone
How she would weep the time away 

~Emily Jane Brontë

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
{I have been writing a lot this week. More than I have in a long time. I stayed up till 1 AM last night working on one of my stories. It is rather strange that I have had such an outpouring of thoughts since I'm also being plagued by self-doubts. They rear their ugly heads every now and then. Oh, how I wish I knew a spell to oust them! So, consequently, nothing I write seems to measure up to some obscure standard I've set. I can never decide if self-imposed standards are beneficiary or just stifling...}
{Picture by and of me.}

I'll be fine.

I cried bitter, self-centered tears because I didn't posses the entrancing ability to write beautifully incomparable things.
I cried pathetic tears because I couldn't find another soul like mine to be my friend.
But at least I have you!

I just wish the selfish thoughts would go away...

{I want you to myself, I don't want to share you with a crowd of admirers so thick they can't be parted.
I don't care if you are more beautiful and talented than I! For then, I can feel pride that you are my friend when others praise you.}

Just know, I'll keep trying to craft delicate missives to send to you.

Though you and the gleaming, spellbinding words that pour out of you could do it better...

I'm trying to be strong and protect you. Your whimsical heart, which deeply feels mysteries others wish to know, has been wounded with harsh realities of a place you've never been.

These wounds run deep. So deep that you and your poet's soul have been fumbling in a darkness that quietly smothers dreams.
And I can only hold your hand and look into your wailing eyes and think, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

But I am certain you will recover, for you were woven with strong fibres. It would take more than this pain to break you.

Me and my cynical soul sit with you as my insecurities cruelly weigh on my mind, leaving deep furrows on my brow.

I don't think I deserve the trusting adoration you give me.
I'm not really worthy of your admiration...
I wish I could be the wonderful person you say I am.



{Photo by: Tony Bonacci. Photo of: Azure Ray.}