The air is cooler today and I'm getting a handle on a lot of things that I've been grappling with lately (new school/town/job, difficulties with writing/self-identity/self-worth/relationships, and on and on). I tend to speak a lot in terms of clarity and confusion. I have to follow this by saying that there is never a time in my life when I am capable of experiencing ultimate lucidity. I'm afraid that I overthink too much without doing very much analysis (this makes me wonder what it is I think about in the first place if I seem to get so little out of it). It helps me tremendously to write things down--I realize things I wouldn't have known without putting it on paper--but yet, I am still never certain about anything it seems.
How did this post become so self-deprecating? Despite everything I said, I'm actually writing this post because for the first time in months, I am genuinely happy. I discovered a lot about myself over the weekend and over the preceding couple of weeks. I feel fulfilled in many ways, prepared. I understand this post is very vague but I guess I just wanted to write this all down. I'm looking forward to the months that follow.
Also, my writing rut has ended! I wrote a poem over the weekend, and, although I don't feel ready to share the entire thing yet, I'll share the first two stanzas (something I've never done before).
UNTITLED
There is no reason for this, only
a starved dog's logic about bones
-Margaret
Atwood
I
worry that everything will fall out of me at once like
many small knives. The
other woman inside of me
protests through steely throat and tongue—all red
hair
and sour nerves. I can’t shake this feeling of
being filled up, filled up, filled up (there must be rooms in
my chest I
haven’t discovered yet).
Last
week, a hard, black kernel settled itself beneath
my ribcage. No matter how
many times I cough, it
doesn’t go away. It grows heavier each morning—I
think it’s been fattening itself up on
pieces of my
diaphragm. I keep telling it to leave but it doesn’t
speak
my language.
