I can't tell you

It hurts. There are no metaphors or similes to twist the feeling into, to give it a meaning deeper than it already has - it just hurts. It aches and it stabs and it makes my head feel empty and light. It makes the world change, become less real. It's a little bit like a dream, the feeling in my head. But it still hurts. I can't change the hurt.

I don't know what it is and that irritates me. I know where it is, I can pin-point it almost exactly. I can tell you what happens when my heart beats faster than it should and what happens when the air refuses to fill my lungs. But I can't tell you what it is.

I can't tell you how much pain I feel or how tight my chest is and how cottony my throat feels. I can't give it metaphors or images. I can't compare it to something you'd understand. I can't tell you because I don't understand. And it irritates me. And I'm scared.

It hurts. And I can't turn it into a story. It isn't one.

Excuses

My fingers move, picking up more reasons to delay the inevitable. The erratic weather cloaks my brain in its very own fog of insecurity. There are so many things I should be doing. But I won't, instead I will find another excuse, another reason why I can't do what I should do and what I need to do.

What happens when you run out of excuses?

Singing

And they sing to the sound of the railway tracks. The song has no name but they're always chorusing and chorusing. No one knows why.

The Write Ways

A fresh page, a seed, a cake mixture waiting to be cooked; another project barely started. It is new, it has no smell of its own, only that generic smell that comes with newness. It will grow into its own in time. It twitches lightly, wanting to move, wanting to live, to breathe life into something greater than itself.

And it will.

The Write Ways

We did it

Relief falls in waves, neglect is erased and there's a happy sigh.

We did it.

On to the future.