My Life

What happens when your world caves in on top of you and you can’t hold it up any longer?

Try to write happy, try to write happy…

The words of the writer represent the sorrows of his heart; and I am relieved by them, much as a breaking heart is relieved by tears. I speak aloud with pure conviction that pain and loneliness shall not hold me within its foul embrace forever, nor long enough to enslave me. I will break through. I will change this intro.

Try to write happy, try to write happy, try to write happy…

The words of a writer represent the joy and power of his soul; each sentence composed in elegance and passion, written to express the uncontainable ecstacy. I think back to my first night with her and feel the happiness blowing through my veins like fire, everything flowing toward the heart and helping it to beat, beat, beat. I imagine her soft skin beneath the tips of my fingers-beat, beat, beat. And here I sit, in the darkest hours of my night, the living words of love and hope and meaning have not departed from me, but remain under the image of her face like an angel pulling me through the darkness. There is hope. There is love. There is joy.

Be happy… Be happy… Be happy.

It is not you alone who know what it is to be evil;
I am he who knew what it was to be evil;
I too knitted the old knot of contrariety,
Blabb’d, blush’d, resented, lied, stole, grudg’d,
Had guile, anger, lust, hot wishes I dared not speak,
Was wayward, vain, greedy, shallow, sly, cowardly, malignant;
The wolf, the snake, the hog, not wanting in me,
The cheating look, the frivolous word, the adulterous wish, not wanting,
Refusals, hates, postponements, meanness, laziness, none of these wanting.

The words ring in my ears like a bell, I am not alone, I am not alone, we are not alone.

The teacher lectures on in his class, the students pretend to listen, the girl to my left checks her facebook, the one to my right stares into the oblivion of her eyelids, and I write. I hear him reading the words from the book, and they reverberate through my soul. Emerson speaking in my ears, there is not only creative writing, but creative reading. This is creative reading.

Emotions engulf my self, or what fragments of my self remain after the pain and the alcohol diluted and dispurified them. I need pieces of each, bits of the old and bits of the new. I will fall into my old traditions in hopes of reforming the soul which used to be mine. This is one of those traditions.

My heart feels alone but my mind tells it I’m not. The same verse repeating over and over again, over and over again, over and over again.

I am not alone, I am not alone, we are not alone, we are not alone.

I see a closed door. I feel as if it is locked. Not physically, but emotionally.  One of the ancient great walls built to keep enemies out. I am one of those enemies.

My footsteps vibrate throughout my body. It shakes from my feet to my skull, rattling my brain after rattling my heart. At least there is something left to shake.

I think back to my writing course. Write economically, and don’t re use words. Why not? Maybe some words need to be used more than once.

I lie on the couch. A couch too small for a body this big, a body too big for a heart so small. Don’t re use words… I meant weak rather than small.

I text her, a hopeless attempt to break through the bricks of the walll bestowed in front of me. It strikes the wall and flutters down like a pebble. I feel smaller than that pebble.

The screen of the laptop shines into my weary eyes. It is late. It is a time to be sleeping. A time to close these eyes. But I sit up, staring at a wall which I cannot move.

My only hope in this world was love, but it looks like sometimes, love isn’t enough.