Can, not
I can’t.
I want to.
I need to,
but I can’t.
Like everything else, I've learnt to shut it and keep it out. Volatile he calls me. I might dance like an extension of a sexual act meant for the filthiest of stages in what used to be Fela's shrine but have you ever thought that perhaps what you see is possession? Actually, maybe more release. I let go.
The music comes on and I shut you all out, I dance not for show but for connection with me. The me that I only allow conversations with when I am sufficiently lulled by the call of words and the beat of fluid rhythm. Emotionally unstable, yes. Rational stability, who can deem themselves to be rational in the midst of chaos, lost words, lost promises and destructible charm? Detached and needy I would call that a juxtaposition of sorts if it weren’t so far fetched. But true. What I need, what I would like, I cannot get and so I require less.
I cannot write, I have tried for six months and I never get beyond the first sentence. I wouldn’t call it writer’s block; I do not consider myself a writer. I’d call it suspension of truth. The voices in my head can be very demanding and on occasion they tell me things that I needn’t hear. Like every truly sane person, I have pseudo names and each one encourages itself to boldly go where the previous didn’t.
I cannot write, for if I write I feel, when I feel I cry and when I cry, the story is done. I stop, I see, I read, and I am told by me what I am trying not to think about. I cannot write. The battle of the conscious mind with its inner id goes on. So far, I have won, though should you have bumped into me at a bar back in February perhaps you’d disagree. Make me forget my name I said. More than a number of cocktails later and I could see only one thing. Nothing.
I cannot write. I cannot tell you how much I fear for the future and worry even more about my past catching up on me. I cannot tell you how I hope that the shelter I seek will come before I destroy the olive branch that’s stretched out in front of me. I cannot write. That’s one more thing to add to the list of things I cannot do- swim, skate, celebrate my birthday, date, marry, have kids, ever let you get to know me. The world as I know it will end soon enough once the right vessel is found but I musnt say much more on that. I need to write.
I want to.
I need to,
but I can’t.
Like everything else, I've learnt to shut it and keep it out. Volatile he calls me. I might dance like an extension of a sexual act meant for the filthiest of stages in what used to be Fela's shrine but have you ever thought that perhaps what you see is possession? Actually, maybe more release. I let go.
The music comes on and I shut you all out, I dance not for show but for connection with me. The me that I only allow conversations with when I am sufficiently lulled by the call of words and the beat of fluid rhythm. Emotionally unstable, yes. Rational stability, who can deem themselves to be rational in the midst of chaos, lost words, lost promises and destructible charm? Detached and needy I would call that a juxtaposition of sorts if it weren’t so far fetched. But true. What I need, what I would like, I cannot get and so I require less.
I cannot write, I have tried for six months and I never get beyond the first sentence. I wouldn’t call it writer’s block; I do not consider myself a writer. I’d call it suspension of truth. The voices in my head can be very demanding and on occasion they tell me things that I needn’t hear. Like every truly sane person, I have pseudo names and each one encourages itself to boldly go where the previous didn’t.
I cannot write, for if I write I feel, when I feel I cry and when I cry, the story is done. I stop, I see, I read, and I am told by me what I am trying not to think about. I cannot write. The battle of the conscious mind with its inner id goes on. So far, I have won, though should you have bumped into me at a bar back in February perhaps you’d disagree. Make me forget my name I said. More than a number of cocktails later and I could see only one thing. Nothing.
I cannot write. I cannot tell you how much I fear for the future and worry even more about my past catching up on me. I cannot tell you how I hope that the shelter I seek will come before I destroy the olive branch that’s stretched out in front of me. I cannot write. That’s one more thing to add to the list of things I cannot do- swim, skate, celebrate my birthday, date, marry, have kids, ever let you get to know me. The world as I know it will end soon enough once the right vessel is found but I musnt say much more on that. I need to write.
