Wednesday, February 19, 2014


Someone contacted me today about one of the people I lost last year. It wasn't enough that it seemed like everything around me was dying for awhile, I still had strangers asking me what to do, what do know, what to say, and what to send.

I had no answers.

All I knew was that I was officially six years older than I ever thought I would live to be. While my thoughts were dark, there was no longer the desperate, desperate wish to simply die. My life, while not what I wanted it to be was also not something I wanted to end.

Lately I consoled myself with books. I was reading almost at my old speed-reading speed, consuming hundreds of pages in hours. There was something oddly calming about watching words fly by on the page. This brought more ease to me than my own words.

Inside me, somewhere was a creature who wanted to write, and write, and write. Lately she has been in a box, with walls all around her, and she could not get out. It was its own kind of writer's block.

Words were forced out so that they did not stay in, yet somehow I didn't know if anything was really getting where it needed to be. My friend was gone, and her ashes were scattered about by people who did not care for her. I mourned for her less publicly because unlike Cate, she did not want to be in front of the world. Her loss still hurt me.

Now there was a weight I felt of ashes and strangers.

At least this was forward movement. I had the drive to not get stuck. To not wallow. To not drown. If nothing else at least I had goals. The box that walled me up would not block me forever and the words would flow more easily soon.

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