I’ve discovered prose poetry. It’s exciting a morphed from as the name suggests. Since last Monday night’s creative writing class words and images and sentence fragments have been flowing into my already congested brain.
Are they helping or hindering? Things are loosening and unravelling inside me. I’m gaining clarity about what I want to say but it’s hard to explain the choice when it’s skewed. It’s hard to own it.
Concrete Grey Day
Guilty: the gavel’s sound reverberates around my skull. Of what? Should be, should, should, should … A death, creativity stalled by compulsion. The words stop flowing and I struggle to get my thoughts down. Fatigue, so deep I can barely hold my spine straight. The fight wearies me more than ever before. Part of me wonders, will it kill me this time?
Death not in body but death of futility. The endless comparisons of achievements and greatness and awards. I want them like everyone else, yet they repel me. Is wanting and struggling and fighting and doubting and fearing ever going to die? If it did, would I die a death too and be reborn?
The manuscript heals me, as I traverse my adolescent years I remember things deeply buried inside me. Through my glasses, funky cats-eyes with tortoise-shell arms, I look at the words, black and white squiggles on the page. They join and change form in the eyes of my imagination, a reel of film clunking in a projector.
On this grey concrete day, I revisit 1974 and pull the gut out of it, examining the entrails for anything of real interest. It’s a dirty year of floods, of fatigue and missed opportunities. It’s a time when I bang into the fatigue but rationalise it and force myself through the hiatus. I see the rubber surf mat perishing in the sun but leave it there anyway.
I see but chose to turn a blind eye, dancing again with the enemy of my self-esteem. Anorexia lures me with her false promises and beautiful black gown. We dance some more but the dance is not beautiful.
Don’t be scared to reach out.