Although it is not a cold morning, it is dreary and overcast with a
chilly wind,
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.
