“It is easy to say ‘I want to live’. It is not necessarily easy to do so.”
“This was to be the opening sentence,” Freddie writes in his notebook. Therefore, after avoiding writing now for a month or more, I opened the abandoned book, not good enough for anyone to read, and read.
TV turned off. The wind, the wind whispering and hollowing stories from the stars. It is time to face the truth of a book from a scrambled web of stories told. Grief turned inward now; time, time ticking the seconds away not in a linear fashion, more circular and sporadic as the wind rushes down the tunnels of time.
Nothing new here to tell. The infamous book. It is more of an anthology or memoir, consisting of blog posts and comments from my few faithful readers; some bridge overs connecting the sporadic memories.
It is good enough.
It is not finished.
There are articles written by Freddie from his GLXP days and three poems written; dates forgotten right now.
This is not something that those of you who have read my post would want to read again, however, maybe it is something that strangers might want to read. It needs to be edited and rearranged. Tonight I think I know how to sort through and arrange.
I need to hear what Bonnie, Lori, Anneli, Kathy and Wanda think and I need permission, if I move forward to use your comments.
This said, I write again.
Wind returned to howl around the little house on the golf course where life has grown quiet. It is as if I am not here. Floating through the rooms, I wonder when feeling will return or if this state of being outside my body looking in, will always haunt the days and nights of my life. Strangers seem kinder now. Is it the very pale face, wrinkles etched deeply, eyes searching, not finding, words not spoken except “thank you”, hugs exchanged making a difference?
I fear reading knowing that what I read will be eloquent and flowing, unlike one who cannot finish a sentence without starting a second or third thought and then returning to finish the first thought. Who, in the world of writers, writes this way? Reading would give the answer. The eating away of self confidence.
The wind backs away and today is almost yesterday. Sleep does not always come easy. The wind was better. The silence wraps its arms around me. It will be all right.
Did we live here? Was this home? I stare at Facebook pages: Hometown? Freddie states: Waveland, MS where he was born. Jackie states: Huntsville, AL not where she was born. Did we live here? Truly live here?
My roots are deep in a farm grown wild and unkempt. This seems fitting, now seeing clearly why. My soul knows the answer. This is how you feel; the farm reflects the chaos not only mine but also of many tortured souls having passed through and lived through days of deep grief and pain. It is fitting; days of laughing in the sun gone, leaving this wild, yet peaceful place for another generation to decide.
Virtual friends, please weigh in with your thoughts. What do you think? What shall I do?
It is now today.