I lost it. Completely.
My will, broken, shattered. My focus vanished. My desire to do anything? Pfft! Gone. I began to wonder “Why?” Why I lost that job that looked so promising. Why I had to move when it wasn’t even me that was at fault – I was set to be homeless, thanks to the government and the property manager. Why was I still without work even over the Christmas/Hanukkah/Kwanzaa holiday. Why the bills piled up…and why no source of funds, even from the government. Why life, yet again, seemed insurmountable. Why it seemed to always feel like ten steps forward, fifteen back. So many things I began to ask “Why” questions about.
There’s this one: With my will in tatters, my heart about as badly taken, my focus on my goals gone, I focused on writing on a “thing” for lack of a better word, that won’t see the light of day, is a means of escape. Nothing was real but yet the “whys” piled up. My writing on my blog, that was giving me so much joy, was now a royal pain in the arse. So, I ran back to this “thing” I was writing and hiding on Google drive and really getting lost.
I mean really lost. My edge, my salvation, my…soul, honestly. I met a man and thought to myself, “I’ve lost track of what I have to offer anyone.” It’s depressing and yet, there’s truth to that. What have I done of late that has been of benefit to anyone? That question was roaming through my head. I was locked into the darkness in my mind, believe it or not, through writing. But it wasn’t the truth – MY truth. It was make-believe.
Believe it or not, the reason I have been writing – at all – is to escape the harsh realities of life, at least of late. My make-believe word of where I’m the heroine, the man is my true love forever and yet the frustrations of KEEPING my life in balance (i.e. there’s the ‘drama queen’ in my coming through) is all too enticing as it’s in a “palace” and everything’s wonderful. No bills to pay. No creditors calling me asking where my payment is to get things up-to-date. No having to face the fact I have no money. I hide. I bury myself.
I am lost. To everyone, even myself.
I must say this much, the truest reason I write, while seemingly complicated, but I guess it isn’t. It’s my soul that is reflected in the words I express, even if I use the allegory. I don’t have to go on Facebook to “dump trash” when I can come here and lament about it, toss into a syllable counter and BAM! One poem is born. I can write prose here, as I am and my heart, my mind, and my soul are never judged. I may not get many “likes” but at least it’s there and I’m learning that the material that doesn’t go over well can be recreated into something else that’s much better.
For those that have been “liking” this page, I thank you. For those that have wondered what happened? “Life” happened and, like the groundhog set to emerge in a matter of a week and a half to forecast spring – in the US, anyway – I buried myself DEEP underground so no one could find me or even get close. I do that. It may be for survival but I know it’s harmful – it keeps me away from others – especially where my soul belongs: on the written page.