Alone:
It's those moments alone. When the joy has faded, the anxiety of walking home alone has faded, the memory of being held secure has faded, and all that's left is reality. How does anyone get past this point? How can these questions not flood into the deep recess of a brain. "If I choose to, Would you try to, Understand?" The alone moments when the doubt comes and it's so much harder than being with someone. So much harder to see the other side of this gap. "Where sorrows melt like lemon drops." There is a depth that lingers in this solidarity. A depth that makes the first words hard to say, that makes beginning difficult. After the words start coming they just run and run like water down a cliff. Getting those words to start after silencing them for so long, that is what seems so impossible. "All I wanna do is turn around." Longing for a phone call, longing for a calm word that lingers to push away this loneliness. That's why he returned, because sometimes it gets lonely. Now why does he stay? What is this feeling? Am I once again alone?Unnecessary:
I can’t even be mad at you anymore. I’m not mad at either of you. There is no part of me that wishes you pain, or dreams of revenge, but there is a part of me that now knows exactly what I’m worth in your eyes. Even though I can forgive you, and try to be happy and fine, the fact that to you I meant nothing, even for just those moments, tears me apart. I know that I don’t matter, to either of you. I matter in the lowest sense of the word; you don’t want trouble from me. And to you, you want to keep me around; it’s easier when you know I’m right there when you need me. But I no longer look at myself the same way. I am so very replaceable, transparent, unnecessary. By being who I am I have made myself so very unnecessary. I am easy, I am useful, but I am easily ignored until a calamity arises. I hate that you don’t care. I hate that to you it means nothing. You treated me as you said you never would, you have become another on a long list. And now, I just want to forget. Forget that I care, forget that you matter, forget every word, every laugh, every moment. Forget that I was once someone else, and once again, become someone new. I am who you want me to be, but who neither of us want. It’s funny how it works out that way.
Inspiration
Inspiration is a funny thing. It seems to float, in and out of life, across continents, through different people. It comes in the form of a beautifully painted picture, or a wonderful photograph, or a cascading sunset, or the innocent smile of a child. Inspiration folds around the corners of isolation, and around the spikes of anger. It enters the depth of sadness and the heights of joy. It penetrates into the minds of the strong, and gently pulls at the weary. Sometimes, it comes in the form of a song. The symphony’s of Beethoven, the guitar riffs of Jimi Hendrix, the harmonies of a choir, the range of Imogen Heap, the tearfully sung lyrics of Conor Oberst.
“You’re the yellow bird that I’ve been waiting for.” How many pages of writing has that line inspired? How many photographs? How many broken hearts? More than a novel’s worth, more than an album’s worth, more than one.
Inspiration, it’s a funny thing. It evacuates and escapes before it should. It arrives in the unexpected moments, it hands the opposite of what was meant to be said. Sometimes it protects, and sometimes it cuts and tears. It’s the written form of hope. If hope “is the thing with feathers,” inspiration is the feathers.
