What to say?

    I’m hell to be around.  I sense it, but do nothing about it.  Different friends enter my house on different nights.  I’m blessed with love from these wonderful people.  

But my demeanor oozes with sadness.  Sorrow.  Lassitude.

    Yes, lassitude.

My smile fools no one.  I speak when spoken to.  Chuckle at appropriate moments.  Feign interest in the activity chosen.  And follow suit when the party moves.

I’m despondent.  Removed.  

I’m just not here.

    And I remember a similar point in time.  It strikes me when I’m seated on the couch, in another area of the house from everyone else.  Everyone who is preparing veggie burgers, sauteed kale with leeks, and cheese biscuits in the kitchen.  

My friends.  

My beautiful friends.

    But it strikes me and I must find documentation.  I must find help from my former self.  I lived through this then, I can definitely live through this now.


    So I sprint up the stairs and rush to my closet.  I pull the cardboard box from drugstore.com that sits in the corner, buried in clothes.  I drop it in the center of my room and drop down beside it.  I scour my journals.  Read every line from so many years ago.  Notes fall from the pages that were written by concerned lovers.  Notes that permeate my thick skin.

And the usual happens.  

The norm of this past week.  

I cry.  I sob reading these things.  

But I can’t find the words I’m searching for.  

I simply did not write during the time I should’ve been writing.  Should’ve been moving my pen for the me I currently am.

    The me that needs so much assistance right now.

    The me that’s lashing out for some sort of assurance that this will all be ok.  

    Please, let this all turn out ok.

    But there’s not a word written on it.  Not a single word.

    Damn.