I sometimes forget that I’m only
traveling
in, through, over, and eventually
beyond.
And every hour
of every day,
that journey is subject to change
in a variety of ways.
There have been stops, stalls,
detours, and dead ends,
all distilling down into
this moment.
The rain falls,
and weeping sky
joins weeping heart,
as I’m
alone, aloof, apart,
and eventually
gone.
I have, to my horror,
self-imposed this self-consuming
solitude and silence
far too long,
confusing it for peace.
The restlessness within me
is like a grin of uncertainty
in the face of possible danger.
How many more times must I start over?
How many more opportunities to rise
from the ashes of my explosions?
The sword of my life grows heavier
with each new lifting, each new slaying
of battling spirits in the lengthening shadows,
exacting its terrible, inevitable toll.
There is only so much more
to take, to give, to become, to discover,
and to enjoy.
And yet, in the darkness that precedes
paradise,
we are reminded
there is so much more.
A piece of me,
withering,
was pruned
and planted in
new ground.
Like a seasoned seed
in the hands of a brown thumb
I have been none-too-gently
tamped down
into a
dark silence.
I will take what I can use
from this soil
and emerge as a
new and vibrant version
of myself,
but well-tended,
cared for,
and deeply loved.
She’s right there beside me, watching me struggle, dangling the words like strawberries, or honey running down the comb. I reach to take them into my hands, then they fade to nothing.
She gives me dreams of pushing the stone of Sisyphus.
They surround my head, and I reach up to take them, but they dart and dance like dragonflies.
“Let me have them.”
‘Say please.’ Her laughter is muffled, soft, like we’re separated only by a thick wall we can still hear through.
‘Take them from me. Tell me what I’m thinking you should write.’
“Can I get a hint?”
‘No.’ Again the laughter, and the silence became one not just of amusement, but complacency.
I smiled. “I have an idea…”
That startled her. “But I–”
“It didn’t come from you…” I pointed to the mirror she had her back to, “It came from her.”
She was visibly shaken. “Th-th-that’s impossible!”
“Apparently not. She’s the spitting image of you, and she wants to take your place.”
“NO!” My elusive muse watched in horror as her reflection gave a feral smile and reached for her, then bolted for the door, but it was locked.
Panic-stricken, she turned to see her own arm come out of the glass….
Beyond Panic 