Pain

Pain is sobering, I realized this as I bit the inside of my cheek. It was a useless attempt to regain some control, though the lesson learned was that if intensified it just might have the power to drown out everything else. In other words, it would have still been a means to the ends and for the first time I wished I wasn't so gutless. Had I more conviction within me I may have slit my wrist. Not to end my life, oh no I'm not sure I'm that desperate yet. But it would have no doubt been strong enough to devour the mental turmoil. As the nerve endings in my skin severed the pain would have been real, and as the body would soon realize it must focus it's attention to the external damage, the internal would be forgotten, the storm would calm, and everything would be still. The red river rushing down my arm would no doubt fascinate me and I would remain. Hypnotized. In this small trance I would find my solace; perhaps alone, but indeed alive. What would I do next? Would cry? Would I scream? Would the outside pain I felt then hurt as much as the inside pain I had felt a moment ago? No.

The tears in my eyes would dry, the transparent river disappear. I would rise from my keens and tend my open wounds inside and out. I would bind them tight and with a sober mind would realize that some of them may take time and other may never close. Still those that do eventually "heal" will undoubtedly leave scars. some short, some long, some thin, some thick, but all with their stories and reminders. At last I would smile, because it would all be over......for now.

alone

Sitting here alone, watching the traffic below. The late Autumn now a winter landscape; the world so white yet so cold to the touch........so very much like my heart. Would you believe me if I told you it was frozen long before the snow began to fall? Far below the blanket of white clouds, away from the sun.

***

Then as I had sat there , I thought the last sentence (above) was quite lame, but could think of niter anything else or anything more to say. So I stood up, walked the length of the living room before finding myself perched at the dinning room window. Watching with disinterest the quail trot about and scavenge for seeds beneath the brush where snow had not touched the ground. My hand a began to tremble and my vision blurred, (but the hot air rising up from the heater at my feet would not let even a daring tear roll down my cheek) My tears welled up in my eyes, stinging and burning yet somehow cold as the glass at my finger tips (till thy ran dry). I cried until I couldn't any more. And for a reason I wasn't even all to sure of except that felt so very much alone. So cold, so empty, and my soul, so much in pain.

maybe......fly?

I wonder, why is it that in so many moments of my deep thoughts I am far placed from pen and paper (including their digital conterparts) or occupied with a task that requires my hands. I sapose this is for the best as such thoughts often come in solunm hours and who knows what may happen if these thoughts were captured.......and dwelt upon. Yet a part of me cant help but think that a long list of recolection may not be so bad after all. Perhaps it would inspire me, or make me acountable for all my action and for all my inactions. Maybe it would would make me bold, maybe I would take a chance maybe I would change my mind, maybe I would try something new; and just maybe it would save me from this insanity.