Monday's. Universal in their application to all.
So, tonight I sit at my laptop with page six of my auto-biography staring back at me like some cavernous stretch of blank canvas. Waiting for me to splash my Jackson Pollock like thoughts and feelings across its emptiness. The problem is...I can't. I think about what needs to be written next and then it slips away from me like so much mercury in water. It isn't like history changes much. What happened...happened. It's just so very hard to bring to life...especially when it was so hard to live in the first place.
How does one begin to tell perhaps the saddest tale of their life? How do you put on paper all the fear, heartache, anger, and regret without it becoming emotional masterbation? Cheapened, exploited, and regurgitated like so much verbal drunkeness. Is there any way to put on paper that much of humanity? Or, are moments like these better left unsaid? Can they be left unsaid?
Cycled another 15 miles tonight. There's something about slipping along an empty stretch of road with nothing but the sound of your own tires wearing themselves out. It magically makes all things disappear, and you are alone with the wind and the sun and your thoughts. And then it hits you. Crashing in like the smell of stagnant sewer water evaporating in the summer heat. Really! I mean have you ever strolled past the 72nd stretch of the Jordan River Parkway? I want to know who's to blame for that assault on the senses! And, just like that, all those inspirations are vaporized. Replaced with the end of the day...the end of Monday.
Sara Jade Woodhouse
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