“And so there it is around me, a vivid rainbow tapestry of tears streaming out from the soon to be spent weary dried up tear ducts of some lost men women children hidden behind the indomitable brick curtain that keeps them in and us out. I want to tell them to stop, to take their sadness and stuff it back into their biological beings because it is fanning out like a horrific street map unfurling its way across the room much like person does in sleep. Capillaries along the salty ocean floor; each color more harrowing than the last, more disturbingly beautiful than the next. I want to tell them to stop, but the wound in the wall can’t stop bleeding, its multicolored liquid gently tracing the outline of my fetal exterior, outlining a path to release, past weariness, past pain.
They are bleeding shining crystal white for the sons of your daughters, for your gold rusted nightmares, for the feeling of want in the midst of plenty.
They are bleeding in vain.”
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The redefining of a writer’s poetic voice is never without pressure, without great anxiety. Growing pains are exacerbated on the level of literary adventure, the mistakes of your past are written in ink and the prospect of reinvention is both inviting and terrifying. If I fuck this up, I could lose everything. If I don’t take the risk, I will forever remain a half-baked invention from another era, running circles around my emotions only to end up in the exact same place I started out. Simply put, in the spectrum of feelings between the stages of anger and sadness, I have departed from the former and it has been a long time since I’ve found comfort in its embrace. This novel sense of a quiet sort of sadness is slowly seeping from heart to brain to body, to atmosphere and aura. But until the storm hits, I shall gather up these hazy feelings and attempt to turn them into something marginally special.
