It is in the 3:51 that has been first sight every morning the past few days.
It is in the sound of the distant train rolling down the perfectly straight track I know a mile or so from here. The steady cadence, metal on metal; heavy load rolls in the only direction it can.
It is in the spider-like shadow above my bed; ceiling fan made plain by the small light of the humidifier thermostat.
Tonight – this morning – even the stars are missing.
The blackness is a sponge that soaks up hope. The Quicker Picker Upper. See, look, it’s dry.
I rise and write because I think I must. I fear I’ll lose a thought, a phrase.
Yet, here on the page, I find no flow. There is no organization.
There is nothing.
A moment’s celebration for a really good thing – not an excuse, a real gift – becomes a week away from almost everything that’s been guiding me. Elvis has left The Whole 30.
Not a glass that shatters.
But a feather that floats to the ground.
A glance over the shoulder at the door that whispers closed.
My racquetball partner is standing on the court, alone, looking at their watch.
(See Blog Post #1.)
Ignorance is bliss.
Or maybe just ignorant.
I have nothing to say. Who am I to think I have anything to say.
How many people, right now, are sitting in the dark? How many people, right now, are not feeling anything? How many people feel utterly alone? How many people have ceased to yearn?
It’s like my heart has stopped.
There is an emptiness.
No, wrong, that implies a space that could be filled.
Numbness. Numb. None.
And I don’t think the answer is going to come flowing out of the pen onto the morning page, gurgle up from the still pond of meditation.
Not right now.
“Try to be better.”
Maybe there is no ‘try.’
Maybe there is just ‘be.’
And ‘better’ becomes a relative term.
To begin the page must be blank.
I’m so tired of beginning.