on nights like these

on nights like these i feel the suffocating truth of thoreau’s sentiment that ‘most (wo)men lead lives of quiet desperation and go to the grave with the song still in them’.  i fear that slow starvation, that shriveling of my soul.  

on nights like these every cell of my body seems to scream ‘run! run away! as fast as you can! if you stay here much longer you’ll die.’

on nights like these, the fear of endless days of woefully unsatisfying tedium makes the silent scream in me threaten to rise to be heard.

on nights like these, when who i am seems less important out there than what i am (if i speak all the right pleases, smile at the right faces, look in the right places, act like a person in my place ought to act, then i’ll be allowed to be) yet to remain a ‘what’ makes me feel so unreal,  i yearn with all that i am to escape the unreality.

on nights like these, i desire with all of my being…. heart, mind, and soul, each organ, each tissue, each bone, each cell, each fluid, each space in between and within….  to be the subject of my own life, not the object of another’s.

on nights like these, when i feel such dis-ease, such yearning for Self-ownership, i am struck by the image of that mass-produced piece of furniture that i keep being asked to inhabit, which is really not made in my shape at all. so why do i keep going back into that room? there is something in me that wants the things that this room contains, but doesn’t want to be made into a china cabinet or a larder in order for that nurturing space to be a part of her life. this room needs an overhaul.

on nights like these, when it seems as if a vast impending desert has been unrolled at my feet and there is nothing on the horizon to inspire my hope for anything but more  of this hot, dry sand,  i’m certain the foreboding  must be written on my face for all to read. in my eyes the distance is mirrored.

on nights like these, i yearn to be free, only to laugh at myself in self-recognition (what would i do with all that freedom anyway? !) knowing full well that i’d never be free anyway.  loneliness and shame would have me running right back to captivity.  no, the freedom i crave is not out there anywhere, its somewhere inside of me.

on nights like these, when i feel so terribly stuck, the impulse to move, to run, to fly is so strong. i suppose it’s a natural response, after all, to stuckness – this longing to break free,  to run away to someplace where i can be me… whatever ‘me’ is.

on nights like these, when  i feel the closing-in, the no-way-out of this  there-has-to-be-more,  i recall so viscerally that old familiar feeling of being  boxed in.

but fear not, you who write and read this, for on nights like these,  there is no yearning at all to be dead,  instead there abides a near desperate desire for life!

no phonecalls, please, to ask if i am ok. this hunger for life will not be pacified, numbed, nor, i suspect, go away. the yearning for more is a yearning for More and i cannot fill that space with anything less. and, yes, while i know and have experienced the undeniable and abiding truth that there is no space that is truly empty, i ache to inhabit a space, to be real, to know my own shape, for the word that i am to become enfleshed

my soul cries out!

 there is a song in me that yearns to be sung.

1 Comment (+add yours?)

  1. Traildancer
    Feb 15, 2011 @ 12:03:51

    Your pen is the instrument…and your words the music. Keep singing!



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