Somewhere between Paranoid: A Chant and An Awful Rowing Toward God lies the scenic beauty of the cliffs. Standing on the edge, looking down into the pines, I can feel the lure of gravity. Sometimes, it takes the form singing and music. Most often, it takes the form of words. Many words, swirling and dancing. There is a clutching fear of pain that keeps my feet grounded, though.
It isn’t death I fear. It’s the pain of getting there.
When I am peeled free of anxiety, skinned and naked – then I will know the right things to say. The way to capture all the racket in my head. I will know how to explain about the bath mat. I will know how to frame the swimming pool. I will have the phrase that explains under the football stadium, first year in high school; and another for the anxious over-the-shoulder grade school glances that shouldn’t have ever happened. Stanzas will appear to illuminate the dark corners. Fierce, terrible light that will uncover and remove and scour and liberate.
I will know new synonyms for reclamation and bravery and strength and survival.
Words that don’t hurt so much. Words that pull up scars instead of leaving them.
This isn’t self doubt.
This isn’t suicidal thoughts.
This isn’t anything but me making sense of the things that I have to say.
There is a lot to say. And it requires the right words.
Just so that we are all clear on this: I am not entertaining suicidal thoughts. I am not even sad or blue. Occasionally, someone says or writes something and it inspires a feeling in me. I write it all out, trying to capture that feeling, chasing it around my head until I can examine it in my hands. As I may have mentioned before, writing of any kind – poetry, biography, fantasy, erotica, sci-fi, essay – is all a process.