I cannot write. Cannot write, cannot write cannotwritecannotwrite.
There is nothing to say, it’s all been read,saidanddone. I cannot write
right: my idealism won’t countenance these mongrel awkwardnesses, won’t
afford them the space, award them the effort, free them for flight —
the gut-dropping, nose-first dive I know it will inevitably be. I cannot write
for that. Not for that. Never. for. that. clipped and terrifying journey.
Each work in turn too small, too frail, too crippled, too pained, too
unfinished… unacclaimed.
But is this the true root of the issue? That I am simply downtrodden
by rejection, by anonymity, by the bruises and blisters, the loss of
braincells resulting from my headfirst dashes at the thick, glass ceiling
above, between me and — who knows what?
Maybe the real problem is that I don’t believe in anything upon anything
else anymore, not after the candle burned out, after the fire died, its smokey
tail lifted away and up to a place I cannot reach or imagine: dissipation.
Now all I can imagine is what I can’t have: the end of the line, that bright and
beckoning finish line, that warm and fulfilling completion that, all said and
done, stops Be-ing, stops weaving, jumping, meaning, feeling, sharing,
hoping: a stagnant place of immobility and grey, building block of infinity
brought to naught, all the curves removed, the shapes nothing without
motion, motive, destination,and the forge fires of Hope.
Death, of a strange kind, is what I seek now, all un-beknownst to
my lackluster soul.
