October 6, 1999: Overflowing closets with no boxes
What’s wrong with me? Thoughts fall to the floor, melt with the dust, blow with the wind—disappear without saying, “So long.” My lungs lack the passion to retrieve. My heart looks on almost uncaringly. Here I sit, attempting to pull the twine leading toward the deep. Deep what—an ocean of black, poisoned by false hope? Maybe the dreams have died, each deteriorating, taking colorless detours. How deep—two inches to fifty feet? A puddle, lake or possibly a new sea—my writing pen stops…no answer wishes to surface. Like everyday, I’ll stop, move forward and hope this feeling goes away.