Posted in Musings, Photography, Poetry

Oh dear.

Magic Carpet Ride. All rights reserved.

“I live in a shell, so I can’t blame people when they don’t want to crack me. But people like you are the reason I left the nest.”
Maria Elena, Eternal Youth

Mostly this blog is written in an insecure sense of self. There is plenty of advice out there that tells us to fake it until you make it. And I practice that on occasion, until I wear thin that rain-soaked cloak and find I can no longer carry the baggage. It is then I wish to don silken wings that have been packed too tightly in a box.

I have churned out several blogs over the course of 9 years. I have closed down those same blogs and in the process of shuttering the doors and windows of yet another, while simultaneously starting a new blog (Soul Signs) and keeping this blog moving into the future.

Borderline Crossing has turned into both a polished poetry site and a behind-the-scenes curtain call. (Definitely more of the latter.) I was born into a mess and I have only made the world a messier place to live. My inner imaginative world remains quite organized but when I step out the door and enter your mind with word and deed, I leave behind a less than stellar impression.

I am beginning to think I will never really publish a book. Forest Stories is my next brainchild. But then whatever happened to Leave No Stone Unturned or Evening Fog? Maybe just poems in this newest chapbook I propose. (Revision is never-ending!)

I have so many side burners turned on high heat that I am smoldering iron, too useless to make an impact at all. While I am at it, burning down the house seems apropos, with the cold water turned off.

So in fact, this is all my own doing. Right? If I were a plumber, I would certainly fix my current dilemma. Or if I knew a plumber, perhaps I could. Or maybe I enjoy the variety of a well jumbled day. Dishes stacked in the sink waiting for me to pause and enjoy the hot sudsy water. Rooms full of disheveled projects lining dining room table, coffee table, writing room desk layered with linen paper and napkins with jotted notes. Plastic bins stuffed with fabric and buttons lining closet shelves. Boxes of pastels, markers and paper, canvas and acrylics take up as much space.

But underneath an INFP is a deep oceanic peace. Yeah! ✌🏼 J


3 thoughts on “Oh dear.

  1. I feel with you. I closed and opened almost a dozen of blogs through my life. However, I published many of my work. Just keep looking for calls, contests and try your luck every time. ❤️

    Liked by 1 person

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