Those Restless Nights

Sometimes, no matter what I can't seem to write. No matter what I may think, how intense my emotions may be or what I have just come up may be the most brilliant thing I have ever conjured up, I can't seem to write. I have no will to write. This usually happens when I am at the bottom of the ocean, feeling smothered, oppressed and extremely depressed. The times where I let go and wallow in self-pity. Writing down an incomplete sentence becomes one of the most difficult tasks in the world.

Then, there are other times. The times where there seems to be something lodged right in the center of my chest, diving me into two equal parts with sharp, permeating edges. I can't seem to pacify those intense emotions, thoughts and the more I write, the more I want to write. I want to write in my thought journal, in my observation journal, this blog here, poem(s), whip out a first draft essay, a story, then go back and plan everything else...Then I just want to keep writing and keep thinking. Currently, my right hand fingers and side of my palm are hurting and cramping from the overexercise of writing. My phalanges sting with pain and although I want to stop I just can't.

Whatever is there at the bottom of my conscious, slowly and sincerely rising up from the unconscious, whatever kind of burden that I've created and started carrying by my own mistaken notions on my chest, it won't begin to slowly vanish and disappear. I can't seem to whatever it is that I am hauling around within my own self,  it won't drop it on a corner somewhere. This "stuckness", this jumbled mess come off  my shoulders who look wide from the back only and let me be free, light and flutter my soiled wings around, shamelessly. That vibration you get in your rib cage, on the sides, and towards the middle, that deafening ring in your ears, that nobody but you seems to hear,  the thumbing of your own blood in your veins and feeling every ounce of your blood on your cheeks, flushed with a scarlet letter matching to that of Hester Prynne carried on her chest alongside of her infant. Your eyes start hurting from staring into the distant horizon so intently; the white of yours eyes burn, your inner rim feels to be stretched by two tiny hands, but firmly, and tears float of confusion in trying to predict the future; the effort you know will be wasted because you know no such thing can happen; the praying of your own inner self, relentlessly; muttering until the dawn of the night, for one more peaceful day, the fear that you fester and grow because of your own cowardliness and the faith you have that keeps telling you to believe--believe you must and do but the price that comes along with it; by believing you accept your on fallacies and mistakes in which you accept and expect your punishment to be delivered down from the gates of heaven in mere mortal ways you could only understand after years have gone by from your severe divine punishment. In fear of that, it becomes our self fulfilled prophecies; we expect and so it is delivered. Ask and ye shall receive.

So I keep writing, not making any sense to anyone, self included. Well to clarify, I make perfect sense to myself as of right this second. The moment I press Publish and in a few days go back and re read this entry, nothing will make sense to me. I'll question my own process of logic, analytical prowess and my own sanity eventually thinking what kind of a night pulled me down this path that's well trodden down again and wondering when I'll revisit this dungeon that has become a home to me once again.

It's one of those nights that I'll greet the sun before it greets the world and wonder when sleep will return me to it's graces and embrace me sweetly until I am coddled by it like an infant that needs much pacification.