September 15, 2009

I try to identify the source of my anxiety in what we have, this incalculable thing that has sprung up between us.

Maybe it is the calibre of his words? Yes, his words are his ammunition, and I am slain.

No. That doesn’t work. Let’s try again.

His words are the sun. I am blinded. I am burnt. I am… nicely tanned and it’s time to turn over?

No, no, no!

This is it, the source of my anguish. His words, his words, they crash into me, they cudgel, they caress me, they craze me, they coerce me. I feel helpless, hapless, hurt. I’m overwhelmed, blissfully so, and I can’t fight back because he has everything, and I have nothing. The words are his, never mine, given but not received. They turn me on, they arouse me, they pull me in, I drown in them, but they are never mine.

Au contraire. My words, mine, les miens, are nothing, become meaningless and empty in response, because of, in reaction to. His. I’m left verbally naked.

And craving more. Words.


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.

Another Excuse Not to Write

November 1, 2007

First is the visual. I see sparks, or maybe sparkles. I’m not quite sure which it is, but it obscures, without blocking. Closing my eyes causes the shimmer to subside, but it’s not such an unpleasant feeling, so I try not to give in to that temptation. Really, if I move my head quickly enough from side to side, I can look around those glimmering triangles of light. Gradually, though, I can’t keep moving that quickly. I become dizzy, or the next phase starts pushing into my awareness. It travels. It begins in the back of my neck, just enough discomfort to make sure I’ve noticed and made the connection. I have. I know what’s coming next. The parts that will hurt will not be the parts that are causing the pain. My skin will hurt. My hair will tingle. My teeth will ache. If I can bear to keep my eyes open, and try to focus, I will see only through a milky haze. Fire-arrows will slice through my temple, from one side to the other, battering the insides of my skull on their way through. The nausea will eventually take over where the pain refuses to leave off.
Sometimes I persist past this point… I keep typing, or writing, or talking, or walking. Normalcy is almost beyond me, though. My speech staggers, my gait falters, my temper hesitates. Now the dim autumn light assaults, the noise of breathing aggravates, the presence of bodies in my vicinity becomes unbearable.

Eventually, I give in. I close my eyes. I seek the dark. I crave the quiet. I ride it out, however long it takes.  Some tiny bit of my brain that acknowledges reality and patterns knows that this will pass.  This me, in this moment, though, knows no such thing. There is no connection to likelihood. The future itself is too much to contemplate. I hide from consciousness, endure, pray for sleep and deliverance.