Tuesday, September 22, 2009
She discovered, for the first time, what it means when someone says, "I already miss you." She never took it seriously, and scoffed at those around her who used it, who told her. "But how can you miss me, I'm still right here," she would retort brusquely; she never paid much attention to how they reacted, once she had handed down her sentence.
And now, she can understand. She can feel it, though she can't explain it. He shrinks, she can see, ever so much a day, a week, a month--and life is filled with hills and valleys: some improvement today, a dip tomorrow--but she slowly understands what it means; what it always must mean.
"I miss you," she says to herself, though she cannot bear to put it into words, afraid that they'll become too real, too true, and that she might risk hurrying things up by forming them in the air. "I already miss you, even though you're still here."
She is starting to understand--too much. She wishes she didn't. She thinks about how it'll be, without his things around. She imagines the cleaning-up process of his medicines, his food, his IV. Will they do it right away, or will they wait, not wanting to face that kind of elimination immediately? What will it be like, without him around?
She cries. She cries, knowing there is not much she can do; not knowing what else she can do; not knowing, barely hoping but secretly, deep down, wishing...maybe he will last, maybe he can get better, if she just does the right things, the right amount, the right amount of love, of medicine, of food, of water. Maybe, contrary to everything she's known and seen, maybe there are miracles. But she doesn't dare to really believe.
She melts. After he has been yelling and crying while they give him what his body needs, her knees turn to jelly, and that same weakness travels up, down, throughout her body, until she collapses, without a strong bone left anywhere inside of her. She melts and stares ahead, until her strength leaks, pouring, out of her eyes.
She is strong and in charge, taking care of his medicines, his appointments, dictating what needs to be done, what he is currently liking, what he is currently needing and life continues, day by day. Life is normal, medicines and IVs become routine; she, even, feels stable. Until another one falls, or somebody trips. They walk away unharmed, but she has collapsed into a puddle, and will not rise again for a while.
"I miss him. I miss him, he's still here, but I miss him. He could live longer, he's strong, he could gain weight back, he could do it. I miss him and I love him and I want him to be okay. Please, be okay. He's dying and I can't stop it. There's only so much I can do. Why can't I do more?"
She tries and tries and doesn't know how much of her is given over to this, to him, to fear, to sadness, to pain, to loss. She doesn't know and can't know and almost doesn't care. As long as she can do something for him, it doesn't matter what she feels. She is young, she reasons, and healthy, so it doesn't matter how much of her is being consumed.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Well, it was a random assignment for myself, and I was hoping that it would inspire me (force me, rather) to write a little every day, without getting overwhelmed or intimidated by the word count. One of the biggest problems was that I didn't give enough thought to my first day's writing. I figured that it would develop, day by day, and change (which it did), and become interesting (which it didn't). And there's the problem...I quite simply got bored. I was happy to be occupied with other things, because it didn't seem to be leading anywhere, and, frankly, it was getting cheesier by the day.
I was (am always) horrified to start writing like I did in middle school and high school again. Basically, aside from the stories which I call "shy girl fantasies," (stories in which the cute, possibly popular boy sees the quiet girl and starts to like and think about her, because she is mysterious, interesting, and attractive), and the stereotypical dark and morbid poems, I wrote "inspirational" poems and stories with horribly obvious morals and supposedly uplifting messages of hope, etc. They're really quite dreadful. So, I was worried that this exercise was starting to turn into THAT kind of writing.
Don't get me wrong: one of my ultimate life goals is to write things that inspire people, that help promote change in the world, that makes the world a better place (and there's the cheesiness!). However, I believe that in order to do any of that, the writing itself must be beautiful and inspiring. Blatant moral messages can be seen anywhere, and tends to effect few, if any, people. It's too easy to acknowledge, then ignore, if not downright mock. In truly wonderful writing, though, the message doesn't have to be obvious. A masterpiece must present the ideas, then let the reader make the decision on her own, as the ideas, the passion to do something, blooms inside her, moving her, as a result of her own thoughts, to action.
Grand ideas indeed, especially for someone who is only occasionally moved to action, then slows down; often stops. That's why I'm hoping I can achieve this through my writing: combining my passions of writing and...how to phrase it? changing things, helping people, helping silent voices be heard.
Perhaps that is why I have such a difficult time getting myself to write, to finish stories. I know that I am not there yet (indeed I'm terribly afraid I never will be), and that I have so much to learn. And, of course, the biggest, most terrifying, and probably most common question:
Can I Do It?
Can I be a writer, am I any good? Will I ever be?
I suppose the moral here (haha) is that I think too much. But there you have it, the first insightful into-my-life-and-head blog post.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Here I stand, waiting for someone to come and show me how they think this world should work, before I dive headlong into life, and follow my own direction. A look into the past, and then I'll jump, breath held, arms out, praying that I have the courage to look at what I face, and smile. The wind whips through the desert, where I have been sent to face my worst fears, to see if I can come through on what I have proclaimed. My guide will be here soon, and then I discover what I am capable of doing.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Here I stand, waiting for someone to come and show me how they think this world should work, before I dive headlong into life, and follow my own direction. A look into the past, and then I'll jump, breath held, arms out, praying that I have the courage to look at what I face, and smile. The wind whips through
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
Here I stand, waiting for someone to come and show me how they think this world should work, before I dive headlong into life, and follow my own direction. A look into the past, and then I'll jump, breath held, arms out, praying that I have the courage to look