Story Complications

Life  is rarely simple.   A lot of its plot lines reach odd dead ends.  Some strands of my life will always remain incomplete and unfinished.  Literature talks ceaselessly about the beginning, middle and end.  It’s what confines a story and makes it what it is.  My life resists such structure.  There are things I will never understand.  Things that will not have an ending or what seems to be an ending. Yet, still I try.

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Undoing

5:30 a.m.  I awake to a horrible ringing in my ears.  It takes a while for me to realize that it is only the chiming of the alarm clock.   The shower feels so good I don’t want to leave it.  I finally step into my day realizing that it isn’t the big things that will destroy me.  It’s the devastation of the day-to-day that will be my undoing.

The contrast of the freedom of vacation with the servitude of the day does not escape me.  I work less hours for less pay and the money is never enough.  I see my future wiping trays in McDonalds or as a greeter at the doors of a Wal-mart.  It’s hard to get excited about what lies ahead.   This line of thinking is like dipping myself in acid.  It eats away at me.  Time to write.  I’m looking for salvation.  Maybe the words will take me there.

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Learning from Anger

I have a duty to speak the truth as I see it and share not just my triumphs, not just the things that felt good, but the pain, the intense, often unmitigated pain. It is important to share how I know survival is survival and not just a walk through the rain.—–Audre Lorde

Anger.  Yesterday, that was my truth.   When I tried to write, anger kept glaring back at me.  I could see it peeking out from the middle of the “O’s”.  It was hurling cannonballs . . . the dots on the “i’s”, periods, pieces of semi-colons.  Soon, every lower case “l” became a spear.  Oh, the horror, the horror.

I gave up trying to write.  I walked away from this bloody battlefield to try again another day.  There are times when all one can do is surrender.  My anger was too strong, too raw.   Words would have contained it.  Anger was a wild beast that hated the cage.

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I am the person behind the words printed here. I write because my heart will not allow me the option of NOT writing. It has taken me half a life time to discover this basic truth, but now that I have, writing is as natural as breathing. This is where my breath takes the form of words.

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The Miracle Morning: The Not-So-Obvious Secret Guaranteed to Transform Your Life (Before 8AM)
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