Scrapbook pages
Leafing through them
Unhealthy
But it flashes through your brick walled memory like battering rams
And you are powerless to stop it.
Thinking back through pages of black and white composition books:
Symmetrical poetry about beauty and rapture and disgust covered in white snow -
Like forgiveness but soot-ed and grey;
My eye lashes smooth my tear-encrusted cheeks:
Soul fly.
My soul flies over bridges and across mountaintops while my body sits idly in the middle of a
sun-drenched room.
I feel the warmth on my skin but it does not change the fact that I am alone.
Still covered. Cotton. Choking.
I want to tear it free,
To push it away with crimson hot anger
But I cannot.
I embrace it
and allow the suffocation to comfort me.
Today it is bright and sunny and almost seventy degrees outside. It is a beautiful, gorgeous, wonderful day. I am... here.
March is in full bloom, full sway. I feel the way the poem says, above. Melancholy and... not numb yet...something in between full, heavy emotion and nothingness.
I want to write about it so that others can understand what is happening to me. Inside my head. With my body right now. There is so much to write about.
The choking feeling - like I want to cry over nothing.
I am currently directing a play called W;t, by Margaret Edson. I really should write about the process, about the piece, about the actors and actresses with whom I am working... but right now, there is this line. Vivian is in pain. She is dying from ovarian cancer and she is trying to describe the pain that she feels. She says "I want to tell you how it feels. I want to use my words..." but she cannot. It escapes her.
I know that I am not dying of cancer. But I think that depression... I think that SAD and all other forms of depression are things that not many people who haven't experienced them really understand. I want to use my words to tell you how it feels.
No comments:
Post a Comment