Caught the press of time, the weight of unfinished something, of mystery unformed, of the uncreated, that which has not been made real maddens me. It eats at my brain and soul and heart. It saddens me. It demands something of me that can't give.
I am spiraling back into the dark place where I always go because I feel so constrained, so often trapped -- I long to be free to write, to create to make to do to be ... something. Something other. Someone else. Debra knows I am never satisfied and she feels at a loss, feels somehow responsible, like she has failed. I try to tell her that it is me -- that I have failed myself, me, I alone.
I must find my my way, and only I can do so. I stumble through the dark and no one else can lead me out.
T
(Originally scribbled @ 5:25 p.m., 1-9-05, @ Books-a-Million)
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