I wish I could say that the reason why I haven’t written in so long on this thing is because I have some amazing stuff brewing, and a novel/novella is “almost done.”
I’ve just been uninspired, sick, depressed, angry, sleepy, annoyed, happy, in love, exhausted, grateful but most of all…uninspired
I tell myself that life should inspire. That I should start listening to people more, in their passerby conversations. In their snippets. But I don’t. I want to like people more, but I don’t.
I have been made to, no wait, I have let myself be made into a person that doesn’t trust, therefore everyone is ugly.
This includes me of course.
I’m never an exception.
Lately, I can feel this body of mine changing. I feel new hurts, new pains. New things fill and wane. Food has become mundane. A chore.
But, last week my husband and I took a trip to the desert and that made me fall in love with him all over again. I got the opportunity to apologize for my recent behavior under a full moon and quiet flatlands. Looking back now, it felt like an exchange of vows, at least from my end. His vows were spoken throughout the growing pains.
“No one is you.”
That’s a favorite reminder.
But see, no one is anyone. We forget that.
We forget how hard we’re trying to be unique, when in fact, the key is to just be.
There’s no formula, there’s no need to show me how much you’re bleeding.
I’m bleeding too.
Instead, let us try to bleed in ways that makes the masses feel cuddled?
We slept in a garage converted into a room, made love, drove through ghost towns and polluted waters. Spent money on sidewalk flea markets, ate good and bad food, laughed and drank questionable cocktails, sang karaoke and enjoyed the desolate landscapes.
Enjoyed each other.
I sometimes forget to enjoy.
To forget the bullshit and enjoy.
But it’s hard with fear and catastrophe being fed down our throats. With so many lies being exposed and so many people acting out on hate.
My husband and I have come to the conclusion that the reason no one connects with each other is because we can all feel the impending doom. The world needs a cleansing. We fucked up, and now, we must pay.
Perhaps that’s a watered-down explanation, but for me it rings true. I am guilty of feeling this doom and acting accordingly.
I am bombarded with reminders that I’m not good enough, or pretty enough, or sexy enough, or talented enough or anything enough to make a living from this art called poetry. It’s a hard realization. To think that art has lost itself in this infestation.
But I continue and hope.
All I have is hope, hope and poetry.