“I had nothing to offer anybody except my own confusion.” ~ Jack Kerouac
Sometimes, life gets smudged around the edges and my crisp lines fuzzle into fluffy lumps of something but I haven’t got the word for it.
No words is hard for a writer. Or when you forget the shape of things or what her name was. When you cry in your breakfast toast for longing. Wishing the words were perfect in your mouth and your mind was like a railway track, clicketty-clack, that knew where it was going.
Yesterday, or some other time, I wrote and I wrote. Because it all came back.
But now the drugs have bitten hard, and my Lyme is sending poison tendrils out that muddle my brain and leave me stranded.
It’s like dementia sneaks up and steals your soul, who watches you through a clouded glass, trying to call loud enough for you to hear the magic code which will unlock the words trapped in that other part.
So I will dream awake, and hope the tide leaves me on a better shore, one where words and ideas hang from the trees sweet as fruit and just as luscious.
Here it’s all bitter and lonely-making. Here I am someone less, and I can’t remember what more tastes like.
