tension

the tightness inside expands from the core of my chest to the tips of my shoulders. breathing is nigh impossible with such tension, release unthinkable. praying for rest is futile, like praying that the sun will never rise again. it's safer in the cool darkness of night but safety spawns nothing. tomorrow is another day, unrequested and undesired as it sometimes is, it cannot be withheld, deterred, postponed.

i used to stay up so late i could almost taste the morning before it came, hoping it wouldn't. but sunrise is not like the watched pot...observation will not halt or even slow the inevitable; it only makes for tired eyes and weary limbs.

the new semester starts next week. i'm a senior now. i don't know how to complete all the requirements, i'm afraid of finishing school...what comes next? i don't think that far in advance. get me through the semester at hand, one day at a time. i'll worry about after when it comes. there's no sense fretting about tomorrow when there's trouble enough to keep me busy today.

one of my classes is a poetry writing class. it's the variable that my have to be dropped...if i can't handle all the 15 credits. it's the night class, once a week. what if i have to come up with poems on the spot? what if i have to write and nothing comes? my soul has been in a coma for so long, what if it never fully revives? i feel bits and pieces, stirrings and nudges now and then...but very little, if any, real vitality.

i've always wanted to be an artist...but what if i don't have the talent? what if i'm not naturally born with that certain something that can't be taught. it's not always about perseverance and perspiration with art. the truly brilliant and successful, the ones who really contribute and awe the world with their masterpieces were born with that certain something; that gift that cannot be acquired or learned. what if i was born empty?

i have the tortured soul, but do i have the words, the imagery, the appeal? i've been invisible all my life, what if no one ever pays attention? what if no one ever takes notice or thinks to appreciate my offerings? what am i worth without my art?

the last few years i've felt worthless. my words were stolen and silenced, my heart mutilated and left numbly bleeding; entirely incapacitated. maybe i'm starting to feel again. maybe i'm whole enough, the scars healed enough to turn the past into something worthwhile.

bishop said i should find a job and that will make me feel my value...having a job has never made me feel valuable...only words, poems, stories, application of imagination, and creation of something inspirational have ever made me feel my worth. without words, without feeling, without love...i am nothing.

i'm a late bloomer. i don't progress as other people do. i stop and look around too much; i meander and stray, wondering what else there is to be found. i have never done life as other people do...so i guess i should stop trying to be like everyone else and just be me. it doesn't matter what other people think of me, all i can be is me. i need to stop hiding.
most artists are different from others. they dance to their own music rather than marching with the rest. they dare to risk all they are for the possibility of something probably unattainable. maybe that's me. maybe i'll fail. maybe i'll never be anybody...maybe i'll always be invisible, anonymous...it's okay. i'll write for myself...even if it's all just scribbles on the sides of the cardboard box i happen to be living in. madness is very close to brilliance after all.

only the future knows where my life will end up and what i'll live through to get there. all i can do is whatever i can today and hope it'll be worth remembering when it's done.