in the rawwhen we are raw
something opens in our wonderland
and through the cavern of pity we fall
we look at others
surely i could be happy in their lives.
what are they complaining about anyway?
they have art and projects to keep them busy
they have talents and opportunities
they have energy and inspiration
they have a home and a garden
but i know this isn't true.
i know these people
and their lives are anything but easy
or full of boundless energy
or good vegetables.
to the muse's most tortured subject
inspiration is still the illusive doe
and boredom sets in
[when did ennui become an existential crisis]
i am considering taking up cross-stitching.
does catching up on LOST really constitute as something to do?
my mind craves inspiring distraction
a way to help these days
( this pain )
pass more quickly
and less noticed
but noticing is what i do.
i set my new coffee cup randomly on a book
and bend down to pick up my niece
it was the most beautiful thing i'd seen all day
and when abiding in a den of grief,
when enduring a whiplash of shock
when currents of adrenaline-filled anger dangle you by the throat
when the deluge of saltwater fogs up the mirror
[you can find no beauty in yourself]
when strawberries taste like overripe guilt
it is then that
this stunning sight
shines that much brighter.
and i notice a bit more.
the light that streams in at the sun's setting
sits on my skin like my husband's gentle hands