Sometimes the words find you and sometimes they don’t. Sometimes they leave you stranded and wanting. Wanting to organize your mind into paragraphs and words and sentences and clauses and decorate them with periods and question marks and the like. Wanting to show the world a colored picture painted from twenty six black and white brushes. They refuse to come until they are forced, unbidden from their hiding places, to show the world what it has not known. To show the world what it has not felt. To show the world a thing in which it has not seen before. Until change pushes them into the open, the words will stay hidden. Safe.
It is in this moment, as I sit remembering a time alone, riding parallel against a train, that the words finally make their way to the surface. They choose to come, after much poking and prodding and faltering at the keyboard. They come, but they are neither moving nor beautiful. The taste of words that will not come, complete nothingness, is bitter on my tongue and I can feel the tingle of wanting that creeps down my spine as I search for the words that seem to be always evading me.
The longer I sit and concentrate on the words, the longer I force myself into the loneliness of that moment with the train, the easier it becomes to find the words that have tried to bury themselves. The longer I sit in solitude and darkness, the more the repressed memories seem to push and pull and tug at the words, driving them into the world that I and they too, are afraid of but must eventually face.
When finally, those words do come, they bring with them pain and perhaps in the end, some comfort. It becomes a miserable game of searching and finding and just so an unappreciative world might know, even for a second that I existed. It is difficult to discuss the depth in which the words are written; a code that will never be fully understood, perhaps even by its author.
To think, all of this because I kept the company of a train today and it seemed not to mind. It did not whisper to me words of wisdom, nor did it offer advice. It simply travelled along side of me and for a small moment, I was not quite so alone as I had felt. For a moment, the strange desire to find those lost words ceased. For a moment, there was no need to explain myself to the world.
Alas, the train was not destined to quiet longing in my heart for the words. It was merely meant to give me a moment of peace away from the things that I could not – cannot – control.
The feelings are there,
but the words aren’t.
How can you share understanding,
if you can’t put it in sound?
How can you share
the things inside your head,
if the words come out jumbled,
when what is spinning
around inside your head,
is kind of like seeing the sunset,
on a soldiers folded flag,
while his widow weeps,
and the world comes together
to mourn him.
It’s like that.
it’s beauty and pain,
hope and rage,
and how do you put that into words,
because even this,
just isn’t enough.
they’d be so surprised,
if i answered the door with
blood dripping down both my hands
and bloody handprints on the fucking walls.
they’d be so suprised,
really they would.
they’d say, but we didn’t see this coming.
i’d lie, you know.
oops, haha, silly me,
just an accident with a kitchen knife,
you see, i was a cooking a big pot
of what-the-fuck and god-this-sucks
and what do you know,
slit both my fucking wrists,
totally an accident.
they’d believe me.
because pain is something we hide
in the closet underneath last years swim suit
and the pictures from our fucked up high school
i’ll chug a bottle of some cheap shitty wine,
the whole thing if it doesn’t slip
out of bloody fingertips.
but if it does, we’ll pretend it didn’t even happen
white wine, what wine?
look at the time,
you sure you’re okay,
that’s their favorite line.
clearly, i’m not fucking okay.
clearly, i need help because
this blood is never gonna come off the walls
and they’re white,
so obviously it’s going to stain,
oh, you got that other thing,
i think i can get these stains out
if i cry fucking hard enough after you leave.
i think i’ve got more bandaids,
underneath the bathing suits.
there are people who say that
you will forget words and actions,
but never the feelings.
those people are right.
i can barely remember your face,
or your touch or your laugh.
i can’t remember the depths of your eyes,
or the way you smiled.
i can’t remember the shape of you,
or the feel of you against me.
i can’t recall the moment that i decided
that i. wanted. you.
the first time i saw you?
the first time i kissed you?
the first time you touched me?
no, i can’t remember much about you at all,
except that for a moment in time,
i was alive.
i was trapped in your fire,
burning and smoldering,
i was more alive than i had ever been.
the sand between my toes
does not heal me.
there is no peace for me here.
When I grow up,
I want to be brave.
I want to say the things
that need to be said,
I want to do the things
that need to be done,
I want to love the ones
that need to be loved,
fully. wholly. truly. deeply.
When I grow up,
whenever that it is –
I hope that I am brave enough
to be brave.