There are times I have to remind myself
that a bridge is a way to travel over water
not a diving board for suicides. That airports
aren’t just places for departures, but places
for arrivals, and hospitals aren’t only
where we go to die, but where we’re born.
I’d like to think not a single bomb
was dropped on anyone today, not a single
person was diagnosed with cancer.
Somewhere someone misses you.
A friend remembers something
you once said. Somewhere someone
thinks you’re beautiful. A man holds
a guitar in his hands. A couple dances behind
the living room couch mouthing words
they’ve longed to share with each other.
At this hour only astronomers
and insomniacs find natural,
as the blazing red lights of an ambulance
flicker fear past the window,
I have to remind myself:
it doesn’t always mean somebody’s
dying in there, sometimes it means
somebody’s being saved.
I have been locked out of my blog. The tragedy lies in the identity of the culprit.
I cannot join the chorus of complaints about middling web hosting services and technological glitches; not even can I lay the blame at the corporate feet of the perennially incompetent Time Warner Cable. I haven’t any tales of Prim infiltration by Putin’s Russian hackers. No, I am the problem. My choking perfectionism precludes me from even making a start.
I soothe the pain of procrastination, of abandoned passion, with mental manipulation, my favorite being that I am not meant to be a writer. Negating my history—my absence of memory sans the written word, my first grade story writing, the engraving of words upon my mind—I tell myself that this writing thing is but a folly. Worse, I may even want to be a writer purely for ego gratification, for the cool and the cred of the writer image.
My excuses are but crippling untruths. I am sad living without writing.
I want to let myself back in.