Automated

December 16, 2007

This post is being written by an automated blogging device.

If Bohémienne had any integrity as a blogger, she would have updated this so-called blog many days ago. Since that is clearly not the case, the Automated Blogging System (ABS) has been activated. This blog will contain all of the required and habitual elements:

1) Navel-gazing

I am a most interesting blogger. I have no doubt that you are fascinated by each and every one of my scintillating words. Today I choose to pass along the following tidbit of wisdom — try not to take on too much over the Christmas season, or you may, in fact, run out of time to write. 

2) Angst

Do you still love me, even though I haven’t been posting regularly? Have you decided to abandon me as a lost cause? Please… I really can’t get by without your attention. I promise to do better. Don’t leave me.

3) Self-deprecation

Really, it isn’t as though anything I write is worth your time and effort. I’m awfully ordinary. I’m more than grateful for your attention, and I take it with a grain of salt. Truly, my talent isn’t so great. No, no, stop it. I blush.

If Bohémienne decides to get off of her ass and post again soon, this ABS will not need to be activated again. In the meantime, your patience is appreciated.

ABS

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Write It Out!

December 6, 2007

I wake up with a low rumbling at the edge of my consciousness. I’m not immediately certain whether this is a headache or the angst of the night making a last protest and grab at my attention before receding at the approaching day. The sensation does not pass, though. It insists and takes hold, until I am forced to recognize it. It steals the tepid pleasure from the pale wintry sun trying weakly to push its sickly rays through the blinds across the room. It resonates with the sound of the alarm shrilling suddenly, as always 5 minutes too late. I’m already awake, or the next thing to it. The buzzing at the back of my head is now a throbbing. It is pain, but it is also memory, a feeling that is hanging on too long, according to my practical daily self, and the practical daily people who tell me to move on, let go, get over it. I placidly, obediently agree. I set my conditions, double my efforts, and refuse to give in.

It doesn’t go away, though. It stays there, buzzing, rumbling, throbbing, ready for the next grey morning, to remind me. It always infiltrates slowly, day after day, this knowledge of my unhappiness. I’m running out of options, though, of energy for fighting it, beating it down. Moving on, letting go, getting over it… that’s the easy part. The thing, though, that presence, that knowledge follows me, through my day, giving me respite only at night, knowing that it is waiting, hovering to push back in with my consciousness. It, memory, has to let go of me, and it hasn’t.

I’ve tried talking it out of me. I can’t do that any more. I’m the one who is talked out. I have attempted to cry it out, walk it out, think it out. It’s stubborn. It hangs on, as if with the primitive understanding that, once out, it will not be welcomed back. This is my next essay. This time, I will try to write it out. If I get the words just right, just write, it will fly from me, out the tips of my fingers, with those words, into space, into emptiness, I don’t care where.  I need to type the magic words, the sentence that will free of my self-imposed sentence. Can it be as simple as knowing the incantation? I suspect that even this apparently magical solution will not rid me of this burden.