death of a soul

I am having another of those tragic days.
I can’t write.
I can’t string three words together.
I published my first work at the tender age of thirteen and now when I have lead a life worthy of these lofty ballads I can’t put a single word to verse.
It’s a sin. My dad is turning in his grave!

I realized something tonight while I stared blankly into the pixels of this terribly small monitor, I realized that I know why I can’t write.
It didn’t take months of soul searching or meditation, it didn’t require a single session at a shrink or even vast amounts of vodka.
All it took was one of those rare moments of reflection that passes so fast that you can’t lie to yourself.
In this single split second I remembered telling a song writer that in the real world money always triumphs over love, I remember telling a lover to be realistic and I remember telling myself that to hurt is weak.
And in that single passing instant I knew that when I drove the idealist from myself I drove with it love hope and heart. I killed the feeling that fed a human soul until it became easy to rely only on my opinions and logic to feed only my mind.

I just stumbled upon the true meaning of tragedy.
Its like death in a way, when you dye your soul departs and leaves just a shell, a physical vessel that the earth ultimately claims


I had a great love once
But I never tell you about it because I fear the force of a broken heart.
I never tell you that he had chubby hands and that he bit his nails.
I don’t write about how he sacrificed new underwear to shine his bike.
I don’t blog about his funeral and the red roses on his coffin for fear that hysterical confusion of utter and complete loneliness may swallow me again.
I have not committed a word to paper about how, when they found the accident he had his arms around me and how they had to pry my little sister from his body because she didn’t understand why the medics weren’t seeing to him anymore.

I had a hero once
My dad had a good heart and wonderful mind.
I never grew out of thinking that my dad could do anything,
He always understood me because, they said, your just like your dad.
But I haven’t written that he had bushy hair or that he had no wrinkles only smile lines.
He called me princess and told me not split ends.
I never say out loud that I still come home and wish he were there for me to test my new theories on, how I wish for his open minded intelligent answers.
My dad was a lecturer, the best you’d ever find (and Grem will agree) he gave everything for his students. Neighbors called him doctor Bernade because he took in and cared for every stray youth who came around.
And there is not a word doc nor a piece of paper that erupts with my feelings of how unfair it was that it was kid that killed him that night. A kid in mommies new Beemer who only had a learners.
I don’t say these things and I simply cant write them because I don’t let myself feel these thing
Emotion is weakness I don’t allow myself or those around me

And deeper the rabbit hole still gets
I have a great love now.
And I don’t have the courage to shout from the rooftops that I love him.

I wish I had “moral of the story” ending to this blog or that I could tell you that now that I understood it I could change it.
But truth be told I have no intention of deviating from my emotionally detached views, as they protect me.
I will simply let live those who are lucky enough to afford the luxury of idealism.
Perhaps one day I will face the demons inside, but for now I will only let the monsters of the mind scare me enough to inspire.
After all, as I said to Etain, The writer needs the pain