Stupid Cuba, don’t they know you need a Home Depot?
Sometimes I disappear into my head. Without warning, everything shuts down and I can’t speak or think or do anything that makes me feel sane or normal. I have moments of feeling really good about myself and about a lot of things in my life. But then I turn around and there they are again. I can’t write anymore. Do you know that? I just can’t. I sit down prepared to write something that helps, something that has been swirling around my head for days, but nothing comes out and I become frustrated and angry and desperate because if I can’t do this, what will I do for the rest of my life? When I hit that wall, the one that’s too big for me to climb, what the hell am I going to do?
I can’t write because everything is a lie. I can’t tell the truth because no one hears me. No one hears me because I can’t write. I can’t write because everything is a lie.
Three months ago, I dreamed that I wasn’t alive and I wasn’t dead. I was holding the hand of someone who was dead and we watched people mourn his passing. We laid flowers on graves. I laid them on his, kisses his casket, and said goodbye. I felt no pain, just a subtle, soothing melancholy, something so sweet that waking up made me want to weep.