. . . pollen and mites, please.
I process with my pen,
its inky laughter and tears spilled in vowels and consonants and grammatical scraps.
Through fingertip to paper, the thoughts pinging off the inside of my cranium find
form and voice; and
if it were not so, the thoughts would escape disjointed and be
part of the myriad muffled conversations in the universe that buzz and buzz—
the white noise of life.
It’s like living under high voltage power lines. So I write
to capture the meaning of things,
to process the jumble of my mind that keeps me thinking,
waking and sleeping,
and try to make sense of it all—well, maybe not all,
but at least me.
There is a grieving for opportunities past, opportunities lost. It’s like the world moved on when you just stepped off momentarily to take a quick look—and it’s gone. Not the world,
but the world you thought you knew.
There is a grieving for the identity you had carefully (or maybe not so carefully) nurtured—okay, it kind of just happened,
but the happening seemed real and sure until one day you woke, and you realized you are not important anymore. Well, maybe you weren’t before, but at least you thought you were. Didn’t the world somehow revolve around you?
You are patronized that you can do some things well—and at your age!
When you are young, those things you do well are fuel for an ever expanding future—the first step to a waiting, dazzling world, begging for your grand entrance with its greatest hits.
But those same skills and gifts at…
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