Although quite busy packing, hunting for a job, being disowned, reducing my e-mail inbox to thirteen messages etc., I still manage to sidetrack myself with a lil crisis for the last two weeks. E-mailed confessions, page after page of journal crumpled under the bed, the inability to concentrate on reading, feeling choked within slumber, moments of disconnection where I imagine my own beheading. . . It's gettin' kinda sinister, this ill-at-ease.
Part of the problem, dear diary, may be found in the excerpt of this e-mail that I sent out during one frenzied moment:
"i don't know where i am going with this, and it indicates, in truth, a certain restlessness, an unease, an uncertainty about writing's effectiveness to combat the slow killing that faithlessness incurs. i have written mostly in darkness, alone, outside of friendship and now a change is required."
The possibility of becoming disowned, I suppose, is forcing me to look at my past again, the reasons why I began writing. It was to write myself a path out of the darkness, the creature that was seeded and grown to cope with the past, so that it could swallow up the sadness and the anxiety and the fear, along with all the memories that accompanied those emotions. And so, that lush, lovely and silent forest had grown so vast within me, it was hard to see the ocean and the cities and the people beyond it.
Now over the years, after many entanglements and friendships and encounters and this great and final love, I have groped to the outskirts of my sanctuary/prison, following a thin phosphorescent thread of light. Under the branches of the last trees, I see it now: the ocean, the cities, and the people beyond the forest, engaged in acts that affirm life and death, faith and faithlessness.
Behind me the wolves of my childhood whimper and whine. I could return to them and languish in solitude; they are familiar creatures, like detachment. Yes, it has always been easy to remove myself from the pains and joys of others. And I thought that e-mail or the phone might help, but instead, I found that you could choose not the respond promptly or to pick up the phone. Technology only enhances the distance.
I could run back, but that will be useless and immature, the desire to return to the familiar by a woman wary of trial and error and more heartbreak. Instead, I should be looking for the mnemonic tools, the words, the braveheart that will take me to it all.