No going back

The post is labelled as draft. And the last sentence isn't even finished. A few lines written in haste reflect a moment you weren't ready to understand, or an idea that needed space to grow. But you never picked it back up. You never took the time to reflect. You never tended the seed. 

Now it's dead and the moment is gone. And try as you might you can't quite find your way back to that place. That feeling. That urgency to record something that felt like it mattered. 

The moment is lost forever, like so many others that you didn't even care to notice. 

It feels like an opportunity missed. If it was important enough to start writing, why wasn't it important enough to finish? What if this was the poem or the story that would have made everything clear? What if you would have finally understood yourself in the untangling of those feelings and thoughts and sensations? 

You will never know those answers. Even if you found words for an ending they wouldn't quite match the start. You're not the same person. It's not the same story. Too much time has passed.

Maybe they are best left unfinished. Unexamined. Unpublished. Maybe that state in itself is the story. Something half felt and half complete. The idea of a thing that never quite took form. A moment swept away and lost in the rush of life. 

2020

Well. It's been a while since my last post. It's been a while since I even checked that this blog still existed. But here it is. And here I am, trying to find my voice and my reason once again, in a year of global chaos. 

Do I make a grand statement committing to a post a week? a post a day? like I've done so many times before. Do I pretend there are still people reading blogs? Or do I just start writing in the way that I've always wished I could. Beautiful stories and poems and moments that touch people and change people and change me. 

I don't think much of anything still matters. So I am just going to write and see what happens. 

Forgotten

I'm conscious of the silence. Acutely aware of the weight in my pocket and how it tugs on my heart. The smallest sound sets off an alarm. A false alarm. A roller coaster of hope and rejection in the space of a single heartbeat. It's not you. It's never you. It's been days since it was you. Days since you didn't kiss me in the dark.
Now there is only the silence of my phone screaming how easily I am fucked and forgotten.

Losing my religion...

I identify as a creative person. I always have. If you ask me, I am someone who draws and writes and paints and sings. I say these things even now, when I have come to a point in my life where these are things I never really make time to do.
Drawing and painting has gone from being a peaceful, joyous, enjoyable activity to something that stresses me out so much that I can't even start something let alone finish. I'm certain that this is a product of my insecurities and need to overachieve in everything. I feel the pressure of performing. I'm too old to draw terribly. I start a drawing and think it's great, but then I can't finish because what if on that last pencil stroke I make a mistake and ruin the whole thing. Insecurity. Imperfection. I fail before I even start.
My blog is testament to how little I write at the moment. I still keep a diary and I write in it most days. It's not creative writing. It's not poetry. But I tell myself that that's better than nothing. I read and tell myself that it's almost as good as writing something myself. I feel so uninspired. My life is so the same. So stable. What is there to write about at this point? I've seen it all before. Uninspired. I don't know how to start.
The only thing I still do is sing in the car...but even that is being replaced by listening to podcasts...A more grownup use of my time. Or something.

I'm losing the will to make time to do things that are a huge part of how I define myself as a person...
Is this depression again? Am I changing as a person? Or do I just need to shake up my life and do something inspiring?

Night

The sun sets,
and our walls tumble down.
Our secrets spill,
like stars on the ground.

Our minds go to sleep,
and our hearts come alive.
You whisper my name,
and I'm lost in your eyes.

We laugh, we cry,
we fall in love.
We may fall down,
but we get up tough.

The taste of liquid silver,
dripping slowly past my tongue.
The pain of love remembered,
the smell of battles lost and won.

Just a shadow on the winds breath,
is every day I'm living now.
My soul runs wild through forever,
every moment that I allow.

There is nothing to hold me fast,
to the moment currently passing.
I live completely in the past,
and in the future everlasting.

Fire shimmers in the meadows,
until spring is lost to slaughter,
but all that was will be again,
I am the full moon's daughter.