I’m back. I guess that’s silly. I’ve been here…just not always here here.
Update: Posted the wrong url. I was really not supposed to share this. 😀
Do you believe in cosmic intervention? Okay, I admit it. I am sometimes overly superstitious, believe in signs that may or may not be there. And I wonder what it means when I look at a clock three days it a row in the afternoon and it reads 2:34. It’s got to mean something, right? Or maybe my subconscious is at work and it compels. That’s not quite as dramatic though, is it?
So what does this have to do with anything? I wrote this piece last night and then the lights went out, literally. Which, of course, meant my wifi went out and, bingo, no internet so I couldn’t post the piece. Did that mean the poetry was so bad that the gods were intervening? Did that mean I needed to rethink? Well, let’s find out. Because I’m about to post it and if the lights don’t go out….
This was written for dVerse.
I’ve started this post to you all several times now. I know that there are many of you out there who understand depression. For those of you who don’t, I was you. I’ve always been upbeat to the point of silliness. If something got me down, I would go exercise or read a book or dance like an idiot to Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic or Speed of Sound. But I always bounced back.
In March that stopped happening. If you all were around in March, you know that I disappeared for a week or so after an accident. I have’t bounced back, not to who I used to be. I have been feeling sad and easily overwhelmed as my body has just not healed as quickly as I would have liked and my brain either. If you know what it’s like to be in that situation, you also know that every little thing contributes and makes you feel weak.
I don’t share these things easily because I’m not used to it. I’d rather make you smile or laugh or roll your eyes. I’ve always felt that the world has so much pain already and I have never wanted to contribute.
But, I’ve found myself apologizing for not keeping up, for not getting the Mouse story to become routine, but if you know what it’s like to try to write humor, you know you have to feel something like humor in those moments and so Mouse becomes something I write when I feel that maybe I can grab a smile, internally.
I’m not going anywhere and I’m going to try to pull myself up out of this little crevice, but I’m not going to apologize any more for falling behind, for not striving to be the wonder woman who I wanted to be, and for feeling like I’ve let anyone down. Thanks for understanding.
Carrot Ranch Flash Fiction Challenge. June 22, 2017 prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) write a story that involves a dream. This action could have happened while awake, such as daydreaming, or make up a dream when asleep. Go where the prompt leads as it could be a nightmare or just fond memories or ambition.
This is #2 and fictional, although a very similar theme to the first.
I feel gentle fingertips caress my temple, wake to his brown eyes fastened on mine, concern etched in them. His breath, hot upon my cheek, once would have been enough.
“Are you getting up?” he asks, a whisper.
“I need a little more sleep,” I say. He nods, kisses my brow. I almost pull him to me, to have him close.
I’ve never told him that sometimes she appears in dreams and her laughter clutches me. I sleep hoping to dream of her.
I think I hear him say: “Please come back to me” before I slide into slumber.
Taking It All Too Hard
The problem with experiencing life too deeply is at some point you reach the “fill to here” line and it just takes one more wayward sensation to jiggle the lever that pitches you down the jagged slope into emotional darkness.
The tree is lit, the house decorated, choral music fills the silent spaces. This Christmas she’s alone, her son at the in-laws sharing their bounty, and her ancient dog, who hung on out of pure stubbornness, could hold on no longer.
Her ex-husband made polite overtures, Christmas dinner shared with his new wife and family, but although they had a pleasant-enough relationship, she knows there are worse things than being alone. Except now, with Christmas Eve and the holiday looming empty and large, she isn’t so certain.
She isn’t dramatic or emotional, not normally. That had been an issue, before, but ageing, is changing her, making her susceptible to tearing over injustice and hate and Hallmark commercials. She sips pinot noir to anesthetize, but it’s not working this evening, numbness doesn’t consume.
Thirty years of memories cascade through her mind like moments caught on film, playing over and over, reminding her of all of the dreams she once had, all of the goals, the desires, the hopes. The years mock her. All of the instances she could have said, “I love you,” but chose self-protection instead, which culminates here.
Perhaps she could start with a phone call to her estranged brother, an apology, a step, a reminder of when they were children, of laughter and shared secrets; forget the broken promises, the grudges, the mistakes. For holding on so tightly to misery has permitted permeation.
Perhaps she could discover a new dream before it’s too late.