I have had a few days off of work. Before this, I came up with a great plan in my head of the projects I would work on, new words I would write, manuscripts I would submit. Days have passed and projects have collected more dust and words have vanished. I have gotten good at procrastinating, but the question is why. More questions upon questions, and answers are nowhere to be found. Perhaps it is just this life, that my well has dried up.
I turn to the words and images of great artists, I turn to music, looking for that spark, that one moment that has the energy to turn the spigot.
I turn into myself and see fear is replacing water. Fear of failure? Fear of what others might think of a particular piece? No, it is fear that the life and purpose I envisioned for myself, will never come to fruition. Fear that I will never be able to fully express the images and thoughts running through my mind.
I see a little boy running through
a fenced yard, circling the rusty
red swing-set, being chased
by a golden retriever, named Lady.
There is laughter, and barking, and
a summer breeze rustling the tall
oak and elm in this northeast neighborhood
across from the church.
I see the boys face smiling
the light across his face
the dog nipping at his heels
and the black clouds building.
When the sky darkens and
the sun sets, when the lights
dim, and the doors close,
the nightmares return.
The feeling that you don’t fit
anywhere, that there is no place for you,
the nagging question of purpose
of preparing not for the journey but finding a path.
I see the little boy follow routine
be strong on the outside, yet
the emotions build within and
he does not know himself.
A glimmer of hope offered
by the written word and soon
page after page becomes the image
of the mind and the anger.
Given a voice paths
began to reveal them-self.
Where did this purpose and
strength escape to?
Something changed in the
intervening years.
Something was lost. The compass
the little boy held dear to his
heart, gone.
Adrift in that unnamed sea
following unscalable cliffs
the boy now a man
searches for the path.
