Sunday Blog

Bonfire by James Blunt

I tend to laugh a lot. Yes, this is most true of me. But, in my life, there are, and have been, also lots of tears. Some happy. Some irrational. Some purely out of frustration and the need to just ball my eyes out to make myself cleanse, and feel better.

 The simple truth is, there are things you never get over. Things that break you to pieces, that reshape you, you are never again, the original shape you once were, and so you grieve your own death with the sum of all of your losses. You bottle them up inside yourself, placing a cork firmly into your neck to keep them all from resurfacing, as they sometimes do, at the most inopportune moments of your days, for all of us. My inner introvert is calling me today, as I once again, tap into my quiet side, on an unending quest to keep moving myself forward. I have already today, gone for a run, performed upside yoga inversions as if my life depended on it, attended mass, and have had a meltdown. Now my thoughts are few, yet oddly comforting, as I change my attire, securing my bosoms inside the contours of my bra, smoothing out the wrinkles of my jeans, applying cream to my flawless skin, and lipstick to my never naked lips. Allowing the sun to now heat my face, as I step outside and enjoy the silence, the abundance of life again, as I leave my mark, and make it my own. The solitary pleasure is what I find in the silence of morning, when the only sound is the tapping of my keyboard and the clanking of my coffee cup. It is the sterility of first thoughts that get put to paper, my pen, the pill I now take to make the world right. So yes, solitary is part of being a writer, or at least it is, for a writer like me. All the non-solitary time is where I find the seeds in life to plant, grow and write about.
I'm most creative when I am in this solitude, where I no longer second-guess myself, when I just go for it, and take the plunge. This is the time I make unexpected word parallels from the part of my brain that stores the metaphoric as it overflows out of me. I am writer. If I were a carpenter I would build floor to ceiling bookcases, and then I would fill them with novels, memoirs and collections of poetry from the most famous, to the totally unknown. I would sit all day and read every word of every page. I would read through other people's lives. Take from the good, and drown out the bad. I would memorize every word of every poem.

If I were a carpenter I would build a staircase.....to an unabashful perfect life!

But, very few of us, are ever carpenters, so we just hold our truths in the solitary of solitude, until we have cried enough, and can move on. And, even that's okay, for pretty much most of us !