I am always afraid that as I put words to a page that content of those words become meta. Words talking about words, language talking language, and yet I can’t divorce myself from these words. This language for me is as muck and tar, stretching and pulling me inexhaustibly to get stuck and dirtied. I fall back into them because of this apparent mismatch between me and them. Like an abusive relationship where I am betrayed over and over again by these things that I give my heart to only to fall back into their arms again.
It’s in a lot of ways the an inevitability as I am so scared of my own voice for it to ever learn to fly. So afraid of my words evaporating into entropy, crumbling into dust in those who they happen to reach. This why words become so focused, like a fetishism that my words are never allowed loftier dreams and goals as I just want them to work in the first place.
If only their were a tangibility to these abstract figures. To manipulate more fully with my hands aside from the language we have all agreed on. To put my mind down on paper, to transcribe these inner thoughts and feelings in a way that does justice to them.
The destruction of this fantasy is what spurs these regular meta commentaries about my inability to articulate in my everyday life. I keep telling myself to be more deliberate with my words, less is more and more is less but I spew them as a safety net as saying something always feels better than doing nothing. A fallacy I repeatedly find myself falling into, but trudging forward just the same.
I’ve already said too much so I shall leave it for now, but I am wise enough to know this is not the end but just another step on long journey.
It’s not easy, none of it is. It feels as though the whole process at times is a Sisyphean climb up a a steep mountain with no end in sight. How did I end up here, and where does this path lead? I unsure of how the roads will bend or how the ground will break beneath my feet but each step I take I recover bits and pieces of what I’ve lost along the way. Each piece giving me some semblance of strength to move forward. I carry, though, on my back, the memory of months which likes barbs upon the skin tore into my soul and left me bleeding. Am I different now that I have endured more tumult and turmoil, most definitely. Am I better person because of it, that has yet to be seen. We shall see if these expiences have shaped me to be stronger or simply made more able to avoid the dangerous of the dagger in my side.
I climb and climb, my calves burn each time my foot touches the ground. It’s a burning that I am used to but a burning just the same. I continue this climb because I continue to find reasons to keep moving forward. Reasons to persist when my body and mind what to desist and fall away into the sides of the mountain. I can’t stop here, I won’t stop here. Something always drives me forward up the mountain through all the pain and suffering, the heart ache and strife. I did not ask for this pain but when presented with a wall I choose to climb it despite the pain because then maybe I can help others do the same.
Energy sapped but still moving, motivaiton gone but still pushing. I might be at the end of my rope but I am still pushed down but I won’t let go no matter what.
Life is a continual process of working and pushing and I may not be the best at moving forward but I am at least persistent enough to stay in the game. Sometimes that’s is what you need to get somewhere, the ability to stick with it long enough.