January's Apology

My apologies, I’ve written 20,000 words over the course of this month, and not one of them for you. Perhaps this is my opportunity to rectify that.

A month gone already, 2011 underway, and already feeling the rustic sway of time unwinding within me; each and every rapturous moment tickling the oblivion meter down another notch. I’ve written this thing---this smattering of thoughts and philosophies that essentially is the manifestation of my last year’s thought processes. Attempting that was a quest all its own---a bartering of wills, procrastination, and perseverance. Eventually I won out. I’m rather unsure of where it’s all going to go at this point; If anything awaits for me when I walk (again) in May. Another degree down, spanning seven years, and hundreds of books read. I’ve spent my lifeblood and creative juices fueling arguments and attempting to see life from a multiform of angels. Where did it all get me? I hope to find out, in a positive light if possible, yet I relinquish my entitlements in the light of wearing the mantle of humility.

Nothing ever prepares you for the life you actually lead, as opposed to one you’ve conjured up. People are different than you dream, jobs seemingly evanescent, and bills capable of commandeering your priorities without you ever noticing. When did life becomes this? Or was it always so, just on the periphery, hidden behind the smokescreen we wear in pursuit of our passions and pleasures. I think it was always there, lurking in the shadows, tickling our subconscious with simmering worry. That embroilment has begun full-force; each and every sunrise bearing the loadstone and the cure; the beauty and the baggage that we fight through every day. It’s a matter of not letting the former outweigh the latter—as we are so wont to do--- because than we submit to demons contrived outside of ourselves. The ones that are byproducts of this glorious country; a country we’ve entered contract with as we repeatedly feel its surreptitious knife slide into our kidneys. That jolt, that jarring epiphany is what we are in. It’s what I am in.

What’s sad right now is that I can’t even manage to dedicate a thousand to you. I’ve become fixated on these word counts, line spacing, and the self-absorbed world of paragraph demarcation. I feel like I’m seeing the skeleton first without all the beautiful flesh over it---the flowery language and imagery that makes all the hard work so gratifying. Reading back lyrical botanical gardens, and hidden meadow spontaneous prose. All that germinates from some hidden spring, one I had previously tapped into daily, but now it seems no map will reveal it to me. I breathe slow, mimicking ease, forcing blank colors into my riotous head, quelling worry with stifling heartbeats---it yields no results. I’m still suffocating in the miasma of my mind. I imagine this is what writer’s block feels like, even though I’ve done about the most writing of my life.

I want to imagine February is going to be better, and I’ll let that brand smolder in my psyche for a bit---it’s got a nice after taste after all. So I suppose what I’ve really been trying to say (even after derailing and going introspective) is that I’m sorry January, for leaving you so barren. May next year rain sonnets and bestsellers; limericks and haikus; may it ring sincere (for a change) and hopefully contain some truth.