Earlier today I was thinking of intellectual honesty. A concept that keeps tugging at me. We can either labor a short time and build a sand castle or we can drink our time slowly, and build a shelter of many rooms to harbor lost souls.
The book I intend, to finally set sail, shall be such a vessel. A book that wanders through corridors and opens windows. As well as shut doors that once secretly invited in desperation, futility, and deceit. I realize I fight not against a fleshly foe but a spirit of confusion. The deadliest condition of man.
Note: I noticed I was missing this space. Yet find a greater need to go away. A push and pull. A tug and tightening encapsulates my heart. If anyone is feeling the same Id be grateful to connect and explore this dynamic.
Thank you for the earlier well wishes. I hope you all are doing well. Shalom. Jeanne
Solitude, isolation, are painful things and beyond human endurance. Jules Verne
It’s an interesting combination: Having a great fear of being alone, and having a desperate need for solitude and the solitary experience. That’s always been a tug of war for me. Jodie Foster
Good morning. As the turning of days and as the grass sprouted from winter slumber, I found myself at a point where I realize I can tarry no longer. I must be courageous and serious. I must be willing and full of hope. I must grasp every word that spills from my heart and wring them dry, until I no longer see the darkness inside. What then should I do when the light allows too much room for curiosity? The despair I roam within ebbs and throws me into oblivion. I must be willing to try and write what I set out to create. Even if I fail. I must no longer tarry as if my days are endless. Grey is as good of a place as any to either brighten the world with hope or darken it with tragedy. I hope my efforts will lift us to hear the galloping of freedom drawing ever near. That heaven’s promises of long ago will not cease to keep heads from drowning under the growing storm. I sense the road has arrived. I cannot deny my calling any longer. I cannot be a child of milk and cookies. I must be willing to learn and sift knowledge. To discern the day’s signs and the evenings quandaries. To be, is my last attempt at fulfilling my heart’s rhythm. The beating lasts but a few days more. I am ready to accept my fate. Let it be so.
If we fail fail to see the wind coming at the break neck speed of a metal horse on tracks,
If we fail fail in our comfort food, shelter and clothing scraped together with goodwill given as scraps to wild dogs,
If we fail fail as foreign spies on fellow citizens drumming up grievances and rounding up heads rolling in wooden bowls we ravish our own hands.
We fail. We won’t change history any more than armies before us. We drip in mother’s blood and scour our bodies of father’s filth. We bury bones in rags doused with our enemies vapors. And cheer. Cheer our own demise as we beg for freedom from our own ills.
My mind worries about everything. For instance, I contemplated if I should allow comments or turn them off on my blog. I don’t get many, so that is not the problem. The problem is coming across the right way in my answers. Please don’t get me wrong whatever I decide. I will only worry more.
Then, I worry about food. My mother was very overweight and I was deathly afraid of ever having to be seen. So I refused food until I became a mother. Then I ate as if I never tasted spaghetti or tuna or chocolate chip cookies before. And I still have a propensity to over eat. I love the taste of food and I am a pretty damn good cook. Just wish I never had seen a plate, fork and knife. I am doomed.
And the last thing on my mind this morning is a dear friend who sent a note. Should I write back or wait a while? I once confessed a growing love while guilt tripped me up. The feelings were built over tides and shifting sand. I never intended to devour the sour or sweet. Meanwhile, insecurities continue to flourish under the bridge to cause more angst. Oh! to speak out loud, these morning thoughts, chases the sun away. I should go play under the clouds and worry alone.
Being alone is my favorite activity. The only voice I hear is mine. Whether what I write is worthy of being read is another issue to explore and I leave that up to the audience. Perhaps there will be a connection.