Almost three weeks have rattled on since the News.
Still such little steps.
I feel like a turtle.
There are tears in me that have never found their way out. Should they ever, such will be both my deepest pain and my utmost joy.
Each day, I feel these tears within me gathering, congregating, waiting for their turn to roll over the edge and onto my face.
While I am at work, I scold them and tell them to crawl back into their reservoir, as they cling to my eyelashes and to the corners of my eyes. I tell them that they cannot let go. Not yet.
This is not the time. This is not the place.
And still I have yet to brace
myself for their outpouring.
At a time.
But I am a fool to think that I can reign over such tears. They have a will all their own--not prone to obedience or conformity. They do as they please.
In some ways, I am my tears.
In other ways, I wish to squeeze these tears between my fingers until they are no more.
I am nauseous.
I have learned to swallow even that which makes me sick.
As I have observed in a previous writing ("The Doctor"), it is my personal experience that fear and hope seem to possess an affinity for one another.
Or at least they behave as the protons and electrons within the same atoms of the same molecules of the same elements that compose this organism referred to as Life (I'm so cliche).
All my hopes and fears are tumbling out before me. Crowding me. Loud. Buzzing. Shoulder to shoulder. Smashing glasses. Some are laughing. Some are screaming. Some sit eerily and quietly in the darker corners of the room.
I stare them each straight in the eyes. I will deal with you.
If only I could bend my molecules and atoms, and protons and electrons to behave in a way that is more to my liking, to my timing, to my thinking.
I give way to illusion to deceive myself to think that I could wield such power wisely and safely. Rather, I think I would then become my own destruction, my own demise.
And that is ultimately not that which I seek.
It is the peace of life that so often eludes me that tempts me to think in such ways.
When will I see your face to mine, close enough to read your thoughts, to feel your emotion? When will I hear your voice, clearly enough to discern your intentions, to unravel your truth? When will I see your eyes, the windows and lamps into your sentiments and secrets?
This is not mine to know.
You are not mine to have.
Simultaneously I long to run to you and to escape from you.
These games I inflict upon myself.
What are you thinking? Will you be honest with me? What do you want from me? What do I want from you? Who are you? Who are you to me? What boxes and traps have I already set for you? And you for me? What kinds of dances will we dance around one another? What kinds of passivities and formalities will we endure? Am I asking too much? Of course I am. I always do. I am a great expectation. And I expect nothing less.
This is false. This is not true.
I am the one who falls beneath the weight and glory of great expectation. I am the one who wilts and droops, like flowers underfoot. I will disappoint. But disappointment will not bleed its way to failure.
I will fan the wounds. Until the red pool stiffens.
And the firm shell is strong enough.
To stave off the infection of failure.
It will heal.
And the seeds of these flowers must fall to the ground and die. Before they break open to deliver all the color of the life that they were born to live.
I will hope knowing that my expectations are only such. And expectations must learn to adapt.
I will embrace what is real while I cling to what is good.
I write thousands of words. Without saying a thing.
For there are no words.
There are no words.