"Do it for me...for my birthday. Baby, go write a blog today. It'll do you good. Write."
It's Valentine's Day and his birthday. And the only gift he wants: is for me to blog.
Okay. I can do this.
*stares at blank screen *stares at blank screen *stares at blank screen *stares at blank screen
I don't know how to write this.
I don't know if I can remember.
Will muscle memory swoop in and save me like Falcor in the Never Ending Story?
Or will I sink into the earth, voiceless, my energy
zapped by fear.
Will I share too much?
Will my passion be irksome?
Will I expose my fuck ups?
Man I miss you.
Here, silence is not golden.
So whom shall I fear?
I'm outta fucks to give.
Mattafack, I'm fucks deficient. It's time I blogged again gatdammit.
I miss it.
I miss you.
I look at my hands.
I fight to uncurl them. Straighten them.
I stare at them
I command them to restore.
I don't recognize them anymore--
they are battered and bruised.
They're not pretty-I didn't realize I even thought they were pretty until...
I dare a tear drop to form.
I don't have shit in this world but my hands. They've clawed, punched, scratched, waved, lifted, pushed and pulled me all over this world.
My hands are battered and bruised
But the screen is no longer blank.
I am fatigued. Just tired. Not nearly as tired as my mother. And her mother. And her mother.
Then I remember my shoulder.
Reconstructed and stronger than ever.
How shall I write this?
First, I'll use my hands
these two beautiful agents of destruction.
We've had some good times, haven't we?
My two greatest weapons.
Surely, we have more tom fuckery left to have.
Me against the world.
that 90 words a minute pacing has slowed down.
I can adjust
Keep calm, toke and carry on.
How shall I write this. What the fuck to talk about?
I blame social media for this! Easy excuse. But I've lost my ability to
express myself over 150 characters, past 6 seconds, tumblr-ing, pinteresting is a fucking verb now, insta, re-gram, I don't even know what the fuck snap chat is....what is that little ghost emblem anyway? isn't that weird???? Everything is fucking weird to me. I wish Bowie was still here.
Bowie said, all art is unstable.
I think I'm beginning to understand why.
And it's a beautiful thing.
So fuck it, here I am possum
Mummy is back.