THE UNREAD BOOK
Another notch on the bed post, she catches a glimpse from a past and in the split of a second she believes, this is it, the other part of me. The energy so gentle, eyes worn yet kind, wisdom to understand, she is part of her past. Feeling safe today at last. Knowing tomorrow will come, alive and well, out of nowhere, Mr. Doubtful uninvitedly steps in to prepare. He will slowly break her and guide her on the hows and whys of goodbyes. Each day she’ll practice her lines in response to his until the sins of damaged goods rears its head and the excitement of yesterday inevitably turns to dread.
She’ll pick him apart till the very end. She’ll find words unknown to his vocabulary and diagnose him through WebMD. She’ll sit back and watch until he yanks the guilt ridden bloody evil heart from his soul. At this point, she’ll realize, infuriation of Mr. Doubtful has clogged holes in her veins and built walls around her heart. She’ll self-destruct as she rips herself apart.
She has become so well versed in the good-byes, the spoken and unspoken, the planned and unplanned, the teary ones and the happy ones. Don’t be angry, she pleads; she already gave up on anyone reading her thoroughly, her life, her fears, her accomplishments, her gifts, her tears,her happy, her weird, her crazy, and all of her. She exhaustingly screams, I’m not the chapter titles or the end paragraph, don’t you see, I’m all the words written between.
She appears like a dark angel in the sand on the edge of life where the water meets the land. No longer can she tell where the tears stop, the first whitecap or way out there lost in sea. Rose colored glasses worn for so long, now bordered by lines from untold stories brewing ulcers inside. Her eyes distant green, yet vibrant through tears and slightly glazed over from all the past years. Her heart still beats yet anxious with worry of how she’s turned out to be. She knows one slip of the wrong word or action would be how the journey ends.
She writes, understand its not one thing you or I did wrong, I have that need to let go, move on, simply be and appear strong. Nothing more than the whispering of a gypsy soul, this is not where either of us belong.
She knows without doubt her past is no lie and her purpose to live on has arrived. She has come to grips, that until she stands in the middle of her own journey, not many are allowed to stay. She knows when it comes to love, she’s not disciplined enough to forego the game of a staged play. Affairs of the heart, she goes in full force like a dog attempting to catch water from a fire hydrant, trying not to miss a drop in case of a connection long awaited for. Should you turn your head, seem distant, or blink an eye will be all the reason she needs for a good-bye.
She smiles through a zillion lifetime tears, still healing from the years she can barely recall, never being able to speak verbally or explain the way she came to feel. She’s accepted it was never her strength and never will. She has chosen to embrace her strength in writing her heart instead. Keeping hope, someone knows all of her before earth calls her dead.
Don’t feel alone, she continues to rip the books she buys from her life if they can’t find a home by her on the bed. Afraid she’ll cramp the insides and break the backbone , like her, once realized they were placed on a shelf to be seen, never thoroughly read. She gifts them out like homeless cats in hopes to find a forever home. Makes her plea with new owners in hopes the ink on the pages start to bleed from the oil of finger prints, someone is reading, learning, memorizing, researching, and understanding how and why this book came to be.
For those of you with interest, flip the pages of her journey with care, for this is not all about her but how well you each played your part of where she stands now that she is free and living on new land.
Introduction to Front Porch Scripts and Poetry
FRONT PORCH SCRIPTS AND POETRY
Is just what the doctor ordered for some much needed friend time.
Grab a couple of besties, a bottle of wine,
a front porch, and have a recorder in line.
Live It, Write It, Love It, Share It
You didn’t have this much fun since Pictionary