metanoia's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The mire There was a man who could pick me up and take me away with a word or a sigh; empowered me and made me feel like I could be whatever I wanted to be. I was a poet and a writer. I am none of that now. I try to write and all that comes out is prose filled with sadness and despair. I am lonely beyond words. Was I this lonely before? My writing is crap. My dream of writing is crap. I was a fool to believe otherwise. I should just suck it up and live my quietly desperate life and leave the dreaming to those who might actually achieve them. How could I have ever thought I was good enough�? My poetry is garbage, puerile and inane. Heart is pretty much dead now; still in the hole and won�t come out. I still cry at the thought of him. I probably always will. We were slogging through a murky swamp, feet 2 ft deep in mud and silt. It was an immense and infinite quagmire but I felt like I was skipping; skipping along in a fragrant field of wildflowers, the sky was blue and the air was crisp and sweet. Then he let go of my hand. I now stand in a mire, lost and alone, not knowing the way out � the way back � I can not move and am sinking fast. And I do not care. 8:57 a.m. - 2006-02-16 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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