thinking

Precious time disappearing with each descending tick - gone.
Lost to the past.
As lost as the words in my head I mull over but never write down as I walk wet city blocks to work, to school, my only alone times.

Mind numb - give no time to the blood and violence lurking around the corners of my heart, my unspoken nightmares, my unhappy ending.

I used to have premonitions when I was young. Surreal waking day dreams that ended up true. Perhaps as child, invisible and observant, I picked up more than anyone realised, perhaps because I was a child I could only make sense of the things I saw as I grew up.

I've lost that feeling now - instinct worn by ignorance ice and dreams.

I sit, my mind is empty full of nothing everything thinking of the slow day the work I have not done in the garden, in my writing, anywhere and all things I think about and want to do but get stuck in silly routines of cleaning and playing house and dreaming and dreaming and dreaming. Dreaming of being me alone again, whoever this would be. Wanting to live in the forest of my imagination somewhere far away in a place where the light comes down dappled golden green thru the trees onto a forest floor and the place that is mine is rustic and sparse and clear and I can sit and grow and lean into the sun and just be for a while.

And this is not so far from what I have created around me right now in this city of millions I have carved out a tiny space of green full of simple things that no one else would treasure but in which I see beauty. And this is where I feel safe. I venture out and I catch glimpses of myself in the mirror and I see a different self from the person in my minds eye. Smaller. Messier. Less precise.

And I rush back to this haven place.

Three months of shuffling paper, clearing boxes and creating a space that I can sit and feel at peace in so that I can place myself in front of this cumputer and begin to write. Something. Anything. A story. A business plan. An essay. A daily challenge on this journey to discover who I want to be now. Next. Ideas flit through my mind and I can visualize them, almost to completion but struggle with the act of starting any one of them.

I need to shake myself. To recognise that just imagining the idea IS the beginning. That the visualization process IS a vital part of the process. So I have begun. Now I need to take the next step and write. And I write so much in my day anyway that this should nto be my sticking point. This is just the next step.

So. Rather than just think and think and write about the thinking I am off to start on one of the things!

night mind

Fingers paused.
Resting,
waiting for words to tumble
downward.

Optimistic.

Nothing.

Sitting in the night quiet.
Gentle snores from silver cat.
The fridge hums.

The bed lounges backward, inviting, pulling me in.

Just keep swiming.

Weeks of treading water, drifting though days doing the bare minimum. Not that I'm not preparing four meals each day, doing the laundry, making the beds, and playing mama - and all the trivia that entails. It's just that all this mundane stuff is just a deep rooted procrastination. I know I have things I need to address, and I am afraid of this next stage. Afraid that this fledgling dream I have my mind won't work and I will be sucked back into a humdrum routine job that will throttle my creativity.

It's spring. Change is in the air. I smell it.

southern tears

Tonight in a rural village in Africa two people I love share a house.
United by a 25 year marriage of complex convenience they are alone together, fighting and desperately sad. A continent away I hold a receiver to my ear. I listen to both speak out sad bitter words and have no magic formula to wish away the tears. No liberation bandage. Just an ear on the end of the line listening.