Picking up my pen, I stare at the paper in front of me;
The paper, like every other thing around me, is blank;
A white mass of blur stays stationery in front of me;
The therapist told me that I should always put my feelings on paper;
So I carry a pen and paper around everywhere I go.
Does it help? At first;
It seemed almost therapeutic to see the things bottled up inside come alive;
But after a week, I gathered up my different pieces and had read them to her;
Session after session...
Until she told me that what I had was a deeply rooted abyss that nothing could fill...
What the hell did that mean?
Everyone has an abyss, I reasoned, everyone had that space that needed to be filled...
Bottom line, she refused to see me again.
So I left, but I kept up that little piece of activity...
It felt kinda good, I needed a release and writing did it for me.
But there are times I dread, times such as this,
Times that not even writing satisfies me;
Times where I feel myself crawling into that unconfortable, brooding space;
Times when the feeling of helplesness drowns me.
I am not one to feel sorry for myself and lament woefully about how things are not working..
Neither am I one to sit and cry and wait for people to help me..
It is what it is...
This thing... I cannot help it;
I cannot fathom it and so I cannot cure it.
This is one of those times;
And once again, my pen and paper fail me...
Music fades quietly, I can't hear the noises of activity
Slowly, the faces of the people I know no longer seems familiar
At times like this, I wish my therapist never quit on me,
It felt good to see that horrid brown couch,
And talk to someone whose as dead as a stone.
But the fun fare is over, its time to settle comfortably to this other phase thats threatening to overcome.
Maybe if I embrace and welcome it, it may decide to leave earlier than usual...
but till then;
Its just me, my pen and my trusty old white piece of paper.
