"This is my letter to the world, That never wrote to me,-- "

The words of Emily Dickinson echo my sentiments at the moment. This blog has been such a good release. That was the main reason to make it in the first place--to have a place for such release, a journal that cannot be found by those in my household for whom I would feel the need to edit my true thoughts and feelings.

Even though I don't want those who know me personally to read this online diary, I'm finding that I do long for an audience... someone to hear my heart, to read my words, to offer feedback that might help me to clarify the jumbled stuff pouring out of my crippled heart... someone to seek after me when I "disappear" (as I have the tendency to do in real life, and now I have also done so here.)

Yes, I've been hiding, even from this secret place. I've been nowhere. Hiding from hiding. Hands over my eyes, refusing to even peek at the world. Too numb to attempt engagement with a world that "doesn't write to me." Something happened, but it's not really the something that happened that sent me deeper into hiding. That something is closer to being an excuse than a true driving force. What happened?

A friend, not close--but friend nonetheless--
was taken from the world a couple weeks ago.
Suddenly.
They call it an accident, but that doesn't make sense to me.
Even though it's inexplicable, it cries out meaning...
Meaning beyond my understanding is meaning still.
I am so overwhelmed by the immensity of the gorge
between my understanding and all there is.
My words, so insignificant,
Trickle like rogue dribbles from cracks in a hose.

All I can say is:
"This is my letter to the world,
That never wrote to me,-- "
Would you write?
to me?
.

Don't Go Breakin' My Heart (part 4)

There's a clump wadded up in the corner.
I pause as I'm sorting through the clutter,
wondering if I should just throw it out
and clear the floor for sweeping,
for dancing,
for moving about freely.

The recollection is vague--
what's inside the clump--
the crinkled letters, words,
thoughts, feelings, events, touch, tears,
the journey,
the dreams and prayers,
some of my deepest years shared with another,
soaked in my deepest tears shed over any yearning,
torn by my deepest fears
that wrapped the deepest of loves
until it suffocated.

The clump's always been there.
Sometimes I'm so used to it
It becomes part of the texture of the rugs
and the tapestries
part of the pattern
yet
indiscernible as anything more
than a clump,
a useless thing.

When I have approached,
to try to smooth it out enough to see,
to comprehend,
I've been chided,
"Just throw it out and forget about it!"
Forget about it?
Forget about what?
Can I throw out that which I'm unable to grasp?
Or will phantom clump continue to haunt,
continue to trip me up,
continue to thwart the dancing
for which I know this floor was intended?