I wish I was the type of writer who gained inspiration by something as simple as a tendril of hair brushing against my child’s rosy cheek.
I wish I could write poetry out of ordinary daily events that would leave you breathless and in awe.
I wish I could weave strands of my day into baskets of tales that evoked raw and real emotion.
But. I can’t.
My days are boring and uneventful.
I’m pregnant with ideas, emotions, words unwritten, waiting to go into labor and to be birthed. To be held out and be admired.
I can’t think.
I can’t write.
Laundry. Health. Money. They are fragments. Burdens. Things that block the dam.
And did you happen to notice, every single sentences starts with I or me? Yuck.
But that’s where I am right now.
I don’t want to be here, in this dark-ish hole. But I’m sitting here feeling around for a match.
Really though. My major problem is me.
What purpose does this blog serve in defining me?
More importantly, who am I? Who is the me beyond the mother, the wife, the daughter, the sister and the friend.
Who am I to me?
And god damn it. I don’t think I’ve ever known. Not truly.
Not knowing who I am and why I am here, in the blogland and in real life, makes the flow of words even more constipating. NO. I’m NOT depressed. Just in a life quandary.
And I wish there was some sort of emotional stool softener that could loosen this bind and let the ideas, the words, the feelings spew out.
But for now.
I keep straining to push out this crap.