I’m so stuck. Yeah. But I have to get this out, so it’s probably going to be random, and disjointed, and more than a little stream of consciousness. I’ve been taught not to fear the stream, usually by those who have no idea of it’s flow, and who cannot plumb it’s depths, but that’s neither here, nor there.
So, I’ve got to write, even though the things on my mind aren’t the things for the world. At least, not with the part I play. The role I have. I’m supposed to be this stalwart crusader, never wavering in my resolve. Melvin faces treatment like a Londoner mid-blitz, upper lip stiffened and back straight, but I’m always lying when my mouth says “fine”, so I’m not sure how firm that is.
I’m supposed to write that? I’m supposed to put down page after page of fear? That’s all I have inside, with a dose of abject terror, just for seasoning. My confidence is fake, my bravado is false, and my hope seems delusional. I don’t think anyone wants to read that too often, and writing it CAN’T be healthy.
Or maybe I should put all these doubts on record? Some words on how I’m not sure I’ll ever get any better, and that maybe this is my life… my lot.
Am I one of those people who just gets this poison every so often, for the rest of what is an increasingly limited life? I don’t think that’s what everyone thought when they encouraged me to keep writing. That’s just not a good application of time. But I have mental reams of material for “Is this all?” and “She needs a healthy partners, mountains of ideas for “Is this working?” and “Am I getting worse?”. I could probably write a saga worthy of the bards of old, were but my topic “Are these dumb sticks, or helpful art?”,
and still have a couple pages on what REALLY keeps me up at night…
But… I’m strong, they say. I’m an inspiration, they’ve said. My words could help, they’re saying. It all sounds good, but, then, THIS is what comes out. This, is what I write. None of the ideas, or poems, nothing that adds. Nothing that improves. Nothing that doesn’t seem pointless later, when everything is pain and most everything is nausea.
So I dry my tears, with the realization that maybe that can be the reason that I write, to contain the tears, give them a space to flow. I replace my demeanor, top up my bravado, and I guess I’m ready for more. I don’t know why, probably because I really don’t know when, or for how long, but I know, for whatever reason, that it’s what I must. Because I’m not a quitter… just a man who has this part to play…