I Still Bleed

I’d apologize for not writing in here more often, but in honesty, whose left to apologize to?  Well, Stormie.  And Nikki.  Sorry girls. 

I’m writing this small entry because I’m bored out of my mind, taking a single summer class from 9 to noon and then spending the rest of the day vainly trying to find inspiration to write.  My soul is aching.  Not because I’m depressed, but I think because I can’t find any inspiration.  That’s not to say I can’t write…every night I think about where I want the things I want to write about to go…I probably could sit down and blaze out three scripts in two days of a white heat, but I can’t push myself to type except here, where it doesn’t count for much.

And why?  Because of certain things.  Because of relationships.  Because of deep introspection, that, damn me, I seem to plague myself with.

I’m not sure what the last philosophical rant I went on was, but I’ve become very proud of who I am.  I’ve become excessively more regimented in my beliefs about myself and the world around me.  My confidence has grown by leaps and bounds, but I still retain a certain amount of humorous humility.  As Bernie, my advisor would say, I know what I’m good at and admit it, and I know what I’m bad at and I admit it.  I will never be a gymnast.  Glad that’s off my chest.

I was just reading my cathartic sonnets and thinking about things.  To be honest, I haven’t been able to find a poetic muse for a long time…like a blind child finding Waldo, it’s pretty much hopeless.  I’ve revised a lot of my old stuff and made it great, and maybe I’ll put it on here, and maybe I won’t.  Creative Writing has taught me how to really make a good poem, but I can’t tap into emotion as much when I do it now….I need to feel the emotional compulsion and I think, at last, it has been drained.

I know I’ve said that before, but I think, like a volcano, the eruptions have ceased, and most of the magma has crusted over and become nothing more than an immovable mountain and tomb for my heart.  But there are a few fissures deep below the earth that still stir.

It’s funny, but there is something going on right now in current social events that really has me on the edge of my seat.  I mean personal social events…nothing like the Iraq war or whatever.  And where am I going with this?

I’m ranting.  I need to stick to the point.  This journal, in truth, has always been a sort of confessional where I pray people will come and read my inner thoughts so I know that my honesty has at least leaked out a bit.  And what I want to confess is that when Jen decided we needed space, I said ok and have been fine with it.  In fact, I pretty much embraced it, thinking, “Well, now I can actually look for something real.”  It’s not that I didn’t love her.  I just know that she couldn’t love me, because she’s too young to understand that love is not something everyone has for you.

But, despite the fact that with most of my break-ups anymore, or at least for the past several years, I’ve not been hurt by them.  Even when they weren’t my idea.  I just said ok and went on.  The ego and the heart have been battered into stone.  No emotion.  No crying.  Maybe a little rage, but nothing.  Yet, funnily enough, there are still a couple fissures in that quarry in my chest that burst out every so often.  When I think of Hilary’s face when she got my poem, I still cry.  Perhaps because that emotion was the closest thing to pure and interersting in my perception.  And there’s another.  I can’t talk about that one.  I can’t talk about why I can’t talk about that one.  Maybe in time, when I finally am able to see that fissure too seal up.

I wonder what it is about these two women, Hilary and the other, who always plague my mind.  No, not plague…bring me back to the innocent lover I once was.