Not that I’m sick of myself, but I just don’t write down what I feel as much anymore. Well, maybe I’m a little sick of myself. But nothing sits well in words.
Instead, here is what it is...this whole not writing thing. I watch the people in the mall buy clothes that they don’t need or can’t afford. My friends call me, but I don’t always check the caller ID even though its green light blinks in the dark when I get home from being out in the city by myself. Soon some sort of door in the world will creek open and either let me through…out of this funk, or swallow me up so that I don’t know the difference anymore. To think about it is good. Writing all of that down makes it sound silly, like old news.
This might be depressing. I’m not depressed, just a little dried out…like I just finished writing a novel (which I didn’t because I’m not disciplined enough) and everything that I wanted to say has been said, and yet a notebook still waits in front of me, empty and hungry for words.
I look at it. Its blankness stares back at me.
What do you want from me?
It is silent without me hunched over it. The pages jump around a little in the breeze. The pencil stirs. The blue lines are patient.
Poetry is dust, like my body. Like a planet or a stone.
And we both know this is not true, and that I am just frustrated. I feel surpassed, tearing out pages and crumbling flowers and universes and beautiful girls in my hands.