Block
Crystalized and towering
They revolt me, my words. They were supposed to carry me out of myself and deliver that which I can’t keep inside. They failed me. They’ve become improper. Pale. Inapt.
The floodgates through which thoughts flow have become impenetrable. They block the river, and the water keeps rising, up to my neck, down my throat, and up and up.
I never learned to swim. The river would flow and I would breathe. I would bathe in it, head over water. Back then, I could romanticize the having done instead of the doing. The gates were open and doing would simply flow: wild and elusive; free. I was never able to tame it. It came and went as it wished. It has always come back to visit, however, so I learned to expect it and cherish its ephemeral stay.
I’ve tried to catch the doing many times, but I was bare-handed, and it was too slippery. Every time, it would swim away, and I was left flailing in the water.
The doing’s visits have become sparse. My words now flow in confused, conflicting currents, failing to bring me the doing.
They’ve revolted against me, my words. They mock me. They’re here, now, boasting to you. Narcissistic bastards. They always bring the doing when my thoughts are about them, but rarely when I need them otherwise. They refuse to flow in the direction I want them to. They rush hither and thither, driving me mad.
It’s not their fault, really. They’re skittish; scared. Words want to flow as much as the doing wants to swim; as much as I want to breathe the precious air I was once gifted.
The floodgates. They are the real culprits. Towering and slowly crystalizing into an unbreakable mass. They block the words and force them to stumble around in chaotic maelstroms. So now, there’s a raging sea of words and the doing is lost in its depths. I’m drowning, flailing helplessly against the current.
I close my eyes as I sink, and dream of the day when the waters will burst the gates open and flow out of me. The water will lower, and I will fill my lungs with the sweet air I’ve been craving.
They will be more manageable then, my words. They will flow out of me and away, finding their way through the world. The doing will swim free, and I will, once again, breathe.
