In need of soothing of the soul I sit at my keyboard, fingers cracked and ready in position, waiting to begin the mission of script. I have no idea what to commence with, no notion as to why my thoughts are so scattered. What I do know is that I have to let the words out so that my heart and soul can heal. Such a process.
We had a most powerful storm early this morning, the rain fell in buckets and thunder rolled with such force I could feel it in my chest. I opened my eyes to the strike of light that flashed through my bedroom window and wished with all my might I harboured such influence. I laid there listening to the sounds of Mother Nature’s authority upon the roof of my small home, delighting in its squelchy need in my garden. I could almost hear the veggie vines squealing with glee.
Rolling over, binding myself in loose sheets, I allow the rain scented breeze to cool my sleep fevered cheeks. Storms such as these are comforting to me. Its familiarity akin to my own tempestuous soul I suppose. I breathe it in, its sweet perfume nudging my slumbering senses. They are hard to awaken, those senses of mine. I want so badly to feel again. To find the composition of my life that was written just for me, to sense the even planed pathway created for my bare feet to walk upon and to taste the lyrics of desire for anything upon my lips again. Obviously… storms bring out the melodramatic in me.
As it is I am simply human, simply living on a very small planet of not so simple organisms where personal control has been displaced, erased. Perhaps that is why the storms, when they rage like that, make me envious. I stand out in open spaces with arms wide. Wanting so badly to shift the black billows in tornado like rings with my thoughts and impound the too dry earth with a torrent so solid mud flings about, polka dotting the world around me. I crave the responsibility, with one flick of a finger, to create that sharp crack of light on golden prairies only to taste the bitter sizzle of electricity on my lips as it shoots from ground to sky.
Sighing heavily, I swing my legs over the pig-like snoring dog at the foot of my bed landing with a muffled thump on soft carpet. This is not my path. It feels so very wrong, to my feet, to be here. Yet, the day has begun and the robot in me must kick in.
I move about my creaky home mechanically minding my daily spells. Showering, dressing, make-up? Probably not. Maybe I’ll eat today, maybe I won’t. I’m thinking not, as my heart is heavy; it makes food taste too much like cardboard.
I miss things. Not even sure what it is that I am missing. I just know that I’m missing them. Legs curled up on too small a chair, sweeping messy hair out of my eyes with an impatient hand and slouching over a plain white table that screams for a bouquet of wild flowers I stare mindlessly at piece of dry bread. Didn’t even bother toasting it. I instinctively rip pieces off to chew them with zero passion, its only to give my stomach something to do after-all. I miss flavour.
I don’t belong here. I don’t know where I belong. I shift my gaze through windows that need cleaning, sharing my space, inside and out, with silence. A storm rages inside me. The pain of it thumps in my head as it whips the shattered pieces of my heart about making this process of healing the losses as obscure as my future…
My fingers lift from the keyboard slowly, I bow my head squeezing my eyes shut. The scattered thoughts have begun to sort themselves out again allowing me but one very loud question today.
Where do I go from here without you K.R., missing you S.V., and to you, who always listened W.M.?