I want to write about lying in my best friend’s room with my best friend’s dog on top of me. She’s a small dog, yet soon the circulation in my legs begins to slow. And still I’m happier than I’ve been in quite a long time. The precious soul is fast asleep; our bodies are keeping each other warm and calm. Normally I get anxious in the evenings, but not with her. Not with the heartbeat of a sweet dog that trusts me right there on my lap. I want to write about that night, but I can’t.
I want to find words for St. Patrick’s Day weekend, another fun holiday since I moved to Boston. Friends from all different parts of my life surrounded me. I did things I had never done before—some involving athleticism, some exploring, and others alcohol. I want to find words for how much joy I felt in their company, and with so many new adventures, but I can’t.
I want to express how confused I am about life and love. About how I no longer know what to say to people when I’m disappointed, frustrated, or uncomfortable. For the past few weeks I’ve been swimming in shallow water so as not to get hurt. But I want to express myself and I can’t.
I want to note my accomplishments. There are many things I’m proud of myself for doing, like drawing portraits of dogs, giving a martial arts seminar to the personal training staff at my job, learning yoga, cooking sweet potato fries, and being a good friend. I want to make a note of my achievements, but can’t.
I want to shout about the importance of National Women’s History Month. I want to share about how I drew a buff leprechaun on the white board of my gym, and how I baked super healthy granola and yet drizzled half a chocolate bar’s worth of Hershey’s on top. I want to tell people I got a massage cupping therapy which hurt in the moment and left marks on my back that look like I was attacked by a giant octopus but actually worked wonders. I even want to say that I straightened my hair a la 2009. I want to find a way, a place, to get it all out.
I want to write. I sit down with ideas, with feelings, and can’t put it on paper. I’m trying to be okay with that, sometimes it happens. I have two novels that need editing and one that needs continuing (oh, and now I think it should be a trilogy). I have a chapbook that needs to be published and more poetry in my bones waiting to be hung up on stanzas for the world to see. I wrote my first ever short story and it needs attention. Heck, I need to catch up in my personal journal.
People say I push myself too hard, and while I don’t exactly understand, maybe they’re right. Maybe I can’t write about everything. Maybe just living it is enough. The little experiences life has to offer are treasures in themselves.
“An obstacle was often there / to stop me when I’d begin to speak. / From my most / unnoticed actions, / my most veiled writing— / from these alone will I be understood. / But maybe it isn’t worth so much concern, / so much effort to discover who I really am.” ~C.P. Cavafy
“Εμπόδιο στέκονταν και σταματούσε με / πολλές φορές που πήγαινα να πω. / Οι πιο απαρατήρητές μου πράξεις / και τα γραψίματά μου τα πιο σκεπασμένα — / από εκεί μονάχα θα με νιώσουν. / Aλλά ίσως δεν αξίζει να καταβληθεί / τόση φροντίς και τόσος κόπος να με μάθουν.” ~K.Π. Kαβάφης