the fire in my beautiful nickle plated wood cook stove is crackling away. Its beauty and fierce hum comforting to my melancholy, its warmth offering a sense of security I do not feel. I want to write because I feel I could burst from a great pressure that surrounds and fills me. It is neither good nor bad. I simply feel alone with the vastness of it. I feel disconnected and foreign to anyone I know, I always feel so hopeful when I meet new people, searching always for someone who can see me. Instead I am simply to different for them to remain interested, they simply back away slowly, make up some charge against me; I'm old, or a woman, or too masculine, 'after' their husband or wife, or not the right color for who I claim to be, I am seen as a threat in someway I can not fathom, or they perceive the space around me that they can not fathom. They write me off as a braggart, fabricating stories and experiences that only happen to other people. Some times when I am feeling very lonely and outcast I wish that was true, but when I am with myself in my warm little house I am thankful I do not live in a small murky puddle of thinking. I am thankful for the vast ocean of memory and experiencing, of the dark light-less depths of despair and fear, and of the glittering rays of beauty and hope, from where I have raised, into the now in which I drift. Grateful for the sadness that gives me weight, and for the glittering light that buoys me with hope.
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