(no subject)
Sep. 29th, 2005 02:32 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
kuangningI lay in bed early this morning -- well, yesterday morning, really -- with my head pressed against the wall, chasing sleep that I never did find.
At 4 AM, every car down that road outside is a purring and a slight soughing you can hear long after it's gone. Every brush of the tree against the roof is a rustling like a tiny clawed and fearthered thing, scrambling for freedom. And the darkness behind my own eyelids seemed empty, without any electric slideshows of thoughts, no glimmerings of quickfire ideas.
I remember when it wasn't like that. I used to bring myself awake in the morning chasing dream sequences into the light. I spun fantasies and built my days, my hopes, my world, on words. I never believed that those words would desert me. I haven't been non-verbal since I was pre-verbal. I might not choose to use my voice, but to lose my words -- that was impossible.
And still.
Imagine, from childhood, from your first steps, being acquainted with a deep well. Being accustomed to letting down your bucket, and sometimes needing to let it fall quite far before you heard it splash and felt the tug against your hands as it filled. Imagine that it comes and goes with the tides, in some cycle of its own, so that you grow used to fallow times ... and then imagine that one season, you let your bucket down, day after day, to the fullest extent of your rope, and come up empty ... and for longer than you have ever known it to last before, the drought lingers.
Imagine how you go about replacing or refilling such a deep place in your own spirit and heart. How long do you wait, before giving up? Where do you begin to look, once you accept that you must?
I'm at the point of acceptance, with no clue where to search first.
At 4 AM, every car down that road outside is a purring and a slight soughing you can hear long after it's gone. Every brush of the tree against the roof is a rustling like a tiny clawed and fearthered thing, scrambling for freedom. And the darkness behind my own eyelids seemed empty, without any electric slideshows of thoughts, no glimmerings of quickfire ideas.
I remember when it wasn't like that. I used to bring myself awake in the morning chasing dream sequences into the light. I spun fantasies and built my days, my hopes, my world, on words. I never believed that those words would desert me. I haven't been non-verbal since I was pre-verbal. I might not choose to use my voice, but to lose my words -- that was impossible.
And still.
Imagine, from childhood, from your first steps, being acquainted with a deep well. Being accustomed to letting down your bucket, and sometimes needing to let it fall quite far before you heard it splash and felt the tug against your hands as it filled. Imagine that it comes and goes with the tides, in some cycle of its own, so that you grow used to fallow times ... and then imagine that one season, you let your bucket down, day after day, to the fullest extent of your rope, and come up empty ... and for longer than you have ever known it to last before, the drought lingers.
Imagine how you go about replacing or refilling such a deep place in your own spirit and heart. How long do you wait, before giving up? Where do you begin to look, once you accept that you must?
I'm at the point of acceptance, with no clue where to search first.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2005-09-29 07:33 am (UTC)How long do you wait, before giving up?
easy answer--forever. hard answer--I can't answer that, of course. =/
I don't know.
I'm very sorry that's where you are.
no subject
Date: 2005-09-29 07:35 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-09-29 12:53 pm (UTC)I just don't want you to give up. I hope and pray you don't.
no subject
Date: 2005-10-11 02:26 pm (UTC)To breathe in the fresh air & enjoy everything that comes by - even the little things.