well. it's been a minute since i've been to this particular corner of the internet. may of 2022 to be exact.
i had to look back through my iphone photo gallery to even remember may of 2022. for the record, that was a particularly rough part of the mullet phase. if i ever have to remember anything before either my iphone photo gallery or my facebook galley, lord help me. if it existed before facebook, did it even really exist?
this week is a local literature event. i convinced myself to take a day off to attend some of the writing workshops and events and whatnot. maybe even the book fair...if i leave my debit card at home.
time to crack the old knuckles (no, really, they're old. they hurt. they need cracked to function) and attempt to regain any remnants of any literary prowess i ever flailingly attempted to claim.
occasional bolts of singularity strike in a time and space where i can manage to scratch them down on paper or make a note in my phone only to be forgotten and lost to the realm of...did i think that or was it something i heard once?
the occasional cheeky phrase or pensive though cracks the surface. not nearly enough to string together in any attempt at publication to date.
missives such as:
"i am wholly convinced that my words would be of offense to those that know me and completely inconsequential to strangers. but to truly speak my mind would result in a hold of the medical kind versus that of compassion."
"a superior inferiority complex freezes my pen, both convinced and terrified, equally, of success."
brief snatches of character descriptions: "i have never seen hair that so desperately wanted to be somewhere else."
brief plot points: "this is the kind of night memories are made of. those bright vibrant flashes of experience to look back on. the "i can't believe we did that," the "do you remember that time..." the "whatever happened to..." glimpses of future changing history. when, ten years hence, you sit up all night remembering, closing loops, retrospecting and reliving."
rare moments of truth:
if i ever sat down to think about all the things that make me sad in my life, i don't think i could ever get up again.
so i set them aside and keep moving. it may make me cold and heartless, but it's required to survive.
instead of allowing them to swallow me whole, i cover them up.
with tattoos. with inappropriate jokes. with distance. with a callous attitude and a plethora of dirty words. i distract myself with netflix and fall asleep with the noise on to block the sounds in my head.
i don't invest in relationships, as much as i want to, because no one sticks around during the hard stuff and what is life besides a string of hard stuff?
bizarre to think that last one was from the great before. june of 2017. before the last child left. before the world changed. before so many things. before so many more hard things.
moments on moments, nothing coherent or cohesive or concise enough to send out into the world.
even moments that explain my absence:
"what's even the point of writing? a blog? screaming into the void in a random corner of the internet? nothing important. nothing impactful. nothing lasting or virtuous or inspiring or enlightening. just drivel. whining. lessons from the universe the basic toddler had a full grasp on before even understanding words. maybe it's best to just keep NOT writing. what is it they say? don't contribute to the conversation if you can't improve it? and holy roller skating jesus knows i'm not improving it."
whew. no one can ever be as mean to you as you are to yourself. i had a friend call me on that the other day. she said "you know, if i heard anyone else say the things about you that you say about yourself, we'd have issues."
but. here i am. again. shaking the dust off. returning to the thing that bites and scratches and draws blood from the inside. like a siren song, the words call out. to write. to be written.
maybe this weekend will relight the flame. incite a riot of thought. reignite the passion literally carved into my skin.
i don't know what i want to write, but the last few years of relative silence have built up a flood of words behind a damn of isolation. i need to say things. i need to get the thoughts out of my head. i need to stop worrying about who or if will read. stop dreading criticism and rebuttal. stop dismissing and doubting before the ink even has a chance to stain the parchment. write first, reflect later.
so. here is to a return. not grand, by any means. but a return none the less. perhaps even more the less. a few words. a few sentences. a few thoughts. less is at least some. and some is more than none.
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