struggling so hard to see my fist against eternity

[ivyology]

I haven't been writing much. I can't say why. I've reached the point, perhaps, where my thoughts run dry and recycle themselves endlessly. But somewhere along the way it seems to have become March. I am not at all sure how that happened. (March means things, like the arriving spring. I've spent all winter dreaming of summer but the reality, the season that rattles my soul and shakes things loose I'd sooner hide away, is frightening.)

Outside the window, in the dark, the distant street is slick with shining rain beneath the lamplight.

I have been elsewhere all day, my head and thoughts. I left my room messy and my bed unmade. There is something safe and reassuring about the presence of open sheets.

I cling so fiercely to words. Words are thought, words are structure and shape. Words can make me feel things my own heart keeps secreted away. I live by words and words name me, name all my different parts.

But I wonder of a wordless existent. To be released forever from agonizing thought. To only feel. In my mind the possibility feels like closed eyes and a summer sun.