I'm frustrated and unhappy with everything that chokes out of my tongue tied pen. Sometimes I find a niche. Sometimes in the height of all my emotion I have a particularly violent fit and I have a narrow window quickly closing of inspiration. And I grasp it and write then.
But the rest of the time everything feels constrained and artificial. No matter what topic I choose to speak on or write about. It's like the pink sash I bound tight beneath my chest today. The satin was like barbed wire shrinking to fit against my ribs. I would soar in a moment of joy and inhale deeply to close my eyes and slowly exhale the smoky ribbons of joy from my lips, but the cruel sash would stop me. I would lose my ecstasy and gasp for air and choke and cough instead. I was afraid the constraint of the ribbon upon the surging of my heart within my breast would kill me.
I've just got nothing to say. I only think of Anna Karenina, your pretty words, or inconsequential flashes of beauty. Like how the Dr. Pepper is so tangy that it stings my mouth. And I like that so much. Or how pretty the grass and mud and crystals of snow were clinging to my black boots. O how pretty I felt sitting out in the cool air with the winter sun beating upon my golden locks veiling my face as I sat up high on the trampoline, swinging my heavily booted feet back and forth like a little girl. Or how blissful I felt twirling through the kitchen playing Cattleys over and over and thinking of you and how you should hold me like that. My youngest sister caught me twirling and raised her eyebrow at my unconscious raptures and I pressed against the wall and smiled in embarrassment and happiness to it.
All I really want to do is cry softly and gaze at you steadily and whisper over and over, I love you, I love you, I love you.... I feel so much inside but I can't even grasp the shadow of the words to convey anything. I feel as though I am emanating love like light, but I can't describe light. No extent of words or poetry encompasses the indescribable quality of light. I can't catch it in a vial and wrap it up in pretty paper and present it to you as a gift. I can't paint a pretty picture of it and frame it in gilt and hang it on your wall. Light only looks like a dreadful farce in a painting.
My love is like that. I've got so much to give. But I can't seem to find a way to give any of it.
I just want to move through the motions of an infinitely straightforward, complex pattern of childlike fascination with beauty in the most ordinary objects. I just want my heart to beat loudly and my pulse to rush with love and I want you to know that it is, even if I can't speak a word at all.
I want to be foolishly simple. I want to be ridiculously fixated with beauty. That's all I feel. That's all I am.
I've been trying to grow myself out of it lately but I can't. I'm stuck. I'm tired of the pretension of rising higher than my desired cycle of existence.