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Stories From the Edge of Blindness

In 2002, Retinitis Pigmentosa changed my life. This is my story of a slow approach to darkness.

Month

November 2018

Frail

I was determined to become more disciplined, more succinct in keeping my blog alive.  I was going to post twice a week. I have a number of blog posts in the making. But I forgot about the ways that life creeps up and grabs me by the throat, dashing whatever lofty plans I may have conjured up.  I have imagined myself as so many things, believed myself to be so much more than I am.  I have accepted illusion over reality, climbed into the sounds of myself breaking and shattering, as if these were acts of bravery.  I convinced myself it was strength, believed that I was strong, but my reflection shows a woman who is frail and swallowed up by shadows.  Time and again I am a disappointment to myself.
Continue reading “Frail”

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Flowering Ink

Sometimes, just when you need it, someone gives you a different view, shines a light in a new direction. The Stories In Between has done this for me with this absolutely amazing gift. He is a writer whose work I have been inspired by over and over again. He is one of my favorite writers and to know I have inspired him…well, it just doesn’t get cooler than that. To say thank you seems pale, but I know he can see all the degrees of color that comprise my gratitude.

The Stories In Between

I sat at the edge of something, contemplating anything.  Like so many times before, I try to look up, but could only stare down into the cascading darkness beneath my dangling feet.  As I lost myself in the contemplations of the day, a figure appeared beside me. In one hand it held a flower, and in the other, a bottle of ink.

“There are many things which do not make sense to me,” the figure spoke, looking at the objects in his hands.

A woman came into sight from the west and grudgingly made her way to the figure.

“These belong to you.” The figure held up the flower, then bottle and tossed them into the darkness.

“I’m not going down there,” the woman insisted.

“You have to.  It’s not a choice.”

“I’m afraid.”

“I know you are.” The figure kissed the woman on the forehead and pushed her over…

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Thank You

I don’t have the energy right now to respond to everyone individually, but please know that I am so grateful for all of the love and support and laughter.  I have an incredible support system in my husband and family, and in this amazing writing family that I am so fortunate to be a part of.  Thank you for being a part of my journey, for reading the machinations of my crazy mind and heart.

I don’t believe that darkness and light are separate entities, but my light has been unravelling and I need to find a way to thread it back into the darkness, to look at the whole picture.  I have been here before and rewoven the fabric of my life; I will do so again.

Please know that even if I am not commenting on posts, I am reading and loving everyone’s words and stories and poems.

Thank you for all of the love.  I don’t feel deserving, but I am immensely thankful.

Trapped in the Static

I am in the center of noise, where it is static, blank, nothing.  The pull of sadness is stronger than I am.  The weight of my choices floods me with regret.  I have nothing to look back on but loss, nothing to look forward to. I need to rest, to escape the spiteful murmurs of my mind.  My fingers are stone, my heart decrepit. I threw myself away so long ago and cannot be found.  I have shed my skin too many times, tried to believe I could be different.  I have been kicked again and again by a reality only I am responsible for.  I am tired.  Too tired to write or think or speak.  I remain lost, trapped, silenced.

Process and Practice

Being a writer, I think a lot about both the writing process and writing practice.  I have realized over the past year, how these things fluctuate and my views about both shift and change. Continue reading “Process and Practice”

Shards of Cherry Blossoms

My contribution to this months Visual Verse challenge is, I think, an example of how uninspired my writing has been lately, but still I share…….I am truly not being self deprecating or looking for objections to my claim.  Sometimes you just know when things aren’t coming together, and I am simply in one of those stages.  This to shall pass.  On that note……makes you really want to read it, doesn’t it!!

If you would like, you can read it here.

The Consequences of Blindness

I read a post this morning from Sightless Musings, that hit me at my core. Please read it.

I was going to write about writing today, about feeling completely inarticulate, but after reading the above mentioned post, I changed course a bit. I am still feeling like a complete bumbler in regard to my writing, but I press on and tell this story (if you can call it that) anyway.  Continue reading “The Consequences of Blindness”

The Writer

I have been finding it very difficult to get inspired to write any poetry lately, until yesterday, when I read the beautiful poem, “The Poet~part 2”, from The Stories In Between.  What I wrote is pale in comparison to his gorgeous poem, just the unedited bones of a first draft, but it was wonderful to feel the inspiration.

The Writer

Light flits off an empty screen,

taunting me,

throwing doubt into my eyes.

Why must I always break through the waves,

only to find my mouth full of ash?

My feet are less steady each time I stand,

heart hollow from the effort.

I try to shake the brittle ink from the pen,

but the emptiness is so loud,

painful to the touch.   

My words become frail in the heat,

all sense of myself siphoned into the sun.

 

 

Swallowing Voices

Lately, I am a blade on the wind.  Unsteady.  Damaging. I am trapped in the clutches of an elixir that lies.  I swallow the murmurs of depression with bottles of wine and bags of crisps, but can’t ever fully escape the noise.   It sits heavy in my belly and pushes out through my skin.  I wear it in my poems about fat girls and self loathing. I hold it against the roof of my mouth and in my clenched jaw, trying not to wake up.  Trying not to see. Continue reading “Swallowing Voices”

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