Fractured

Train ride home. 

Feeling soft and vulnerable and exposed. 

Not sure I like it. 

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Lonely Roads

Not sure what it is about traveling on the bus that makes me feel so nostalgic. Perhaps, because a good part of this life has been spent on buses traveling from one life to another. One family to another. One lover to another. Seeking identity. Searching for kindness. Wanting love. Moving in between the grays of safety and abuse.

Feels like I’ve been doing this a long time. Chasing a thing. Running from a thing. A lonely traveler carrying a bag packed with little pieces of me. Faithfully transient. A contemplative companion to the lonely roads I see through rainswept windshields.

Aware always.

Of the sadness that travels with me.

And the life I never lived.


Bus blues? Maybe.

But it’s a thing.

Today.

Tenative

Is it truly possible

To be smack dab in the middle?

To be caught

In the exact second

Between Now

And Then?

I am sitting in the midst

Of the most beautiful horizon

Neither bound in spirit

By up or down

Just basking in the twilight

Of the most heavenly Divine.

Moving stealthily  among  shadows

Of ancient times

Witness to the millionth tribunal

Of wind and grass and trees

I hear their secrets

In the swirling mists of dawn

Entwined in the ripple and stir

Of the silent lake

I float

In my yellow canoe.

Alone.

Adrift.

I listen.

Awakening.

I see.

Surrounded by the knowing

I feel it’s truth

Yet I am weighted in the misbelief

That if I rock just ever so lightly

This way

Or that

I will drown in the depths

Of uncertainty

Forever grasping at the lifesaver ring

Tossed in carelessly

A habit of late

Without thought or consequence

By a soul who has no measure

Of who I really am.

Or what she saves.

Or why.

In this moment

I believe in the Universe

But, in love

I am in no true state

Of trust.

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Struggling

That gray cloud of disconsolate has turned an ominous black. I’m not managing it. I’m not handling it. I’m not beating it. It has me wrapped inside its womb of bleakness in a way I’m not sure I will birth myself from this time…

I’m not even sure I want to.

I am struggling.

To be. Here.

I no longer lament over broken dreams and a shattered heart. Nor over the spilled milk of my childhood. Nor over the abuse. The shame. The cowardice. The pain. Of this life.

What’s the point of it?

I don’t walk in the graveyards of the past.

I don’t miss him.

Or her…

They don’t miss me.

I miss something I’ve never had. Someone I’ve never had. And each day grows darker with the never having known it.

This isn’t a mood. Swing.

Or depression.

Or psychosis.

Or sadness.

I am way beyond that.

This is despair.

True and desolate.

Mind numbing hopelessness.

I write of it here for fear that I may never write here again.

I have given up.

This life is just too hard.

And I’m really not that strong.

I thought I was.

Everyone thought I was.

But they were wrong.

And so was I.

Life just doesn’t make sense anymore.

Not any of it.