|me, a few, brief years ago. . .|
I look at this photo and I think: wow, look how much younger, sexier, bolder, skinnier, more entertaining I was.
I crave her. I miss her.
I wonder how she drifted.
I forget that she was also depressed,
wanting, waiting, wishing, and, um,
not eating much.
I forget how she stumbled through the dark house trying simply to hold onto things.
My life since then is happier,
less on edge,
And, this is a good thing.
But sometimes, I look back on her -- that me from a few short years ago -- with longing.
|me, the other day, shorter hair, |
more shadows and lines,
a bit less longing,
and yet. . .
Maybe I am made up of longing.
So that, if I'm not longing someone,
I am just longing for that old me.
Maybe it's a writer thing. Maybe we must keep scratching at the surface, picking, turning over emotions, until we hit raw nerves.
Maybe we're afraid we'll be stale and staid (boring) if we're not in some glorious state of pain.
And the truth is, it's not hard to get there -- stay there -- wanting, wishing,
makes it easy to feel unsettled,
by making it all so tenuous and fleeting.
In front of you, it's all a blur,
whooshing by faster than you can catch your breath.
seems stretched out,
The grass back there is softer, somehow,
*post script: this blog post has been resonating with friends -- both on my facebook page and in my email -- it made me remember this other post of similar theme, with this beautiful "green" poem by my friend, and poet and artist, Lori Landau. You can see it HERE.