something real

So what does one write about when she feels spent and stretched and misunderstood? I usually do not blog about such things. My life has much censure, many commenters who know what it should be, or should not be. So I write about things like chocolate and birds.

Today I am seeking a quiet heart to hold me. Just a place where I can plunk my soul and breath. My mind has shuffled through a whole catalogue of places and people and eliminated them one by one. (Please don't take offense at this last statement.)

I wrote about this a long time ago... you can scan back in my posts. About feeling dislocated from myself.

But here's what it feels like. I wonder if you ever feel like this. I feel like I can't find a hold on my life. Like I want to cast out a line and hook it onto something real and holy and me and reel myself in like a big fat fish. I would reel myself into my self. Somewhere I got ahead of my own song. And like always, even though it seemed to cost a lot, it wasn't enough.

I open my computer and write this ... it is like scratches on a wall. Not thought out, just felt. I want to tell this to the breeze, to the sun, to the birds on my feeders. But they are not listening.

So I tell it to cyber air. And now I am going to cry. And maybe sleep a little. I think I need to sleep a little.