Climbing the hill

Here it is. The birthday post.

I watched my birthday movie.

I did my birthday facemask.

I drank my birthday coffee.

I ate my birthday garbage food.

I made my birthday cake.

I had my birthday cry.

And I reminded myself that, though stuff isn't necessarily great, it could be worse. 

I've had setbacks, but I've taken steps towards what and who I want to be. 

I've had problems, but I've survived.

I'm still learning myself, still shaping myself, still accepting myself, still becoming myself. 

And I suppose that'll keep happening. 

I'm twenty-nine.

Out of the Box

how productive is it, really, to write about not writing
to say over and over again that i've run out of words to say

is that true
have i lived all i have to live
and given what i'll ever have to give
am i dried up now, free-flowing well-spring of creativity used up now

or

did i stop living
did i stop giving
did i bury the well, choke the spring
cram myself into a small, dark box
where i pretended i was safe
where i pretended i'd lived enough
where i pretended i'd given enough
where i pretended i could stay forever

I'm pushing back the lid.

in-spire (self-imposed)

To force out words when nothing comes to mind;

To strain and pull and grasp; to meditate

on emptiness and gaps where I can't find

even a single thought to explicate;

To quibble, trite in inspiration's lack;

To stumble on uneven turns of phrase;

To charge without a clear plan of attack;

To search for something, anything that says

I am a creator. I have a gift

Worth your attention. I am worth your time.

But all I've ever been is now adrift.

I've lost myself. I guess I can still rhyme.

So here's a set of matching words. It's small.

And I don't know if they mean much at all.

the sun Will come out tomorrow

Hope feels dangerous.

A common enough sentiment, expressed by more fluid, fluent, frequent speakers than myself.

One I've taken to heart many hundreds of times over.

Don't want.
Don't like.
Don't enjoy.

Don't

hope.

To desire is to expose, to give the world a foothold or handle to step on you or pull you down.

Hope is much the same, daring the (apparently) uncaring universe to take, steal, shred, kill the dream you dreamed so recklessly.

My mantra: expect the worst, hope for the best. But the latter half is forgotten so often.

Expect the worst.
Expect the worst.
Expect the worst.

Because to hope would make it worse than worst, a syntactical impossibility but a crushing inevitability. Betrayal piled on disappointment topped with despair.

If the worst happens.

If it doesn't . . .


Hope is dangerous,

but

it,

despite repressive laments, desperate dismissals, flat denials,

is
inevitable.