- two years ago i learned that my life was dying. terminally diagnosed in autumn, toe-tagged the following spring. since then, i have stood on a shrinking sandbar, pretending to build a new life for myself, dabbling in transformation (look! i dyed my hair!), and accomplishing absolutely nothing.
at times i can see the shape of the life i want, a glimpse of a shimmering shiny mirage. i can almost taste it, that feast laid on the table in the next room. yet, i stand here. the sandbar is so very much smaller than it was last year. a sliver, really.
i want to jump off, splash into the rushing river and make my way to the shore. i want to be a pioneer in my own life. i know who i want to be, i always have. i almost know what i have to do to become her. yet, i stand here.
a writer who does not write.
an artist who does not create.
where is my will? where is the fire i can call on to make this transformation real? how much more do i have to give up before i have nothing left to lose?
too much cinderella has left me too skilled in waiting, i fear.
1 comment:
Your writing is so hauntingly beautiful. Thank you for sharing your pain and fears. You're not alone on the sandbar.
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