Proverbial You

"Proverbial You"

I couldn't find my way out of the darkness I had fallen into. I had struggled and skimped and was starved for the inattention I had given myself. 

Yet here I am, fighting through the nonsense, looking for meaning in words that have failed me. Where can I find freedom? Where can I find joy? Hope? I feel I have been given sixty seconds to make meaning of a universe that requires eternity. Time falls away and apart, and it means nothing. 

Is not my writing ultimately a journey of hopelessness? Journal entries that wax eloquent and say nothing? Thoughts spiraling into emptiness and voices hardened by the test of time. Is this not more writing than I've done in a week, caught as I am in my on-again, off-again spirals of use?

Remember the days, remember the weeks where the words flowed to me like seaweed away from a watery disturbance? Remember the days when my imagination raged unchecked across the page, and in the end it meant something more than vague senseless philosophizing? 

Can I call this creative? Can I call this alive? 

I see a dead pet that a child's been holding onto. Something that twitches every now and again with the blood rushing through it. Yet still, it's dead, and the only answer or solution is to get a new pet. And most get spouses or kids instead as they grow older, or find birds because they're easier to take care of than the pen, and the children must start again as a child because they've been allowed the time to read and imagine and feed that animal within them that longs to wri--

That's not making sense, I'm not making sense. My mind is alive with hundreds of thoughts colliding into each other, resolved and forgotten in an instance, nagging reminders the rest of the time. People keep telling me what's wrong with me, and I keep telling me what's wrong with me, and somewhere along the way, I forgot to keep up with what's actually wrong with me, and I know that somewhere at the end of the tunnel is a Father who cares, but what on earth does that really have to do with anything else - 

And so my doubt eats at me, my faith remains untested - and thus strong, - I live onward in the sum of the things everyone has ever said to me as I go about losing the only craft that has ever meant anything to me. 

You wanted honesty and safety and freedom and hope, but here I am instead. I hope I could one day be enough for the proverbial "you."