writing life

i need bigger pages. a faster pen. longer lines.

i'm remembering an interview with jack kerouac where he mentioned the need for uncut pages. he typed with fury onto a scroll. rolled it up and turned it into a book. i'm tempted to hijack river's art paper and roll it down our hallway. lay on my belly and spill my guts, just to inspect my insides. to smudge my wrists with ink. the blood of words. truth in bad penmanship.

but i resist. i am hungry with no appetite. i tread water with no focus. just listening to my own rapid breath. just going through the motions. i overlook the words that are there. i sense them near, and i push them aside like bothersome gnats dancing around my head.

i go through phases where i forget how to see the small things. i claim excuses like life is too big. i get angry. i get sad. i wallow. and all in resistance. in fear. for to pick up the pen means revealing the bareskin of honesty. there are scars. there are blemishes. truth waits patiently for me to open my eyes and see. she grins at me while watching the clock.

how does one write of life? 78,051 words. 308 pages of double spaced, times new roman, 12pt font. the lexmark runs out of ink around page 212. it sputters out lost lines and faded words, just like my pen today.

how do you keep your feet on the ground and your eyes on the horizon? how do you maintain foward motion while looking backwards? how do you find the focal points without getting lost? leave a trail marker for yourself. drop crumbs. tie a rope to your waist before entering the cave. let your friends know where you are venturing and when to expect you back. set a timer for when they should form a search and rescue on your sorry ass.

life is not all pain. but my pen writes from these truths, these wounds. they ooze into itchy sores like the poison ivy that spreads down my neck into my elbows. it consumes me even though i'm only standing ankle deep.

i fear the bitterness and resentment that i find when the waves lap my feet. salty and cold. the current tugs at me; drawing me closer, begging me to swim. just to jump in and get it over with. to see. to feel. to absorb. to forgive. to let go. but i resist. i postpone the inevitable. for me, it's a form of self-torture. this excercise in not writing. like beating ones head against the wall until your glasses fall off. i resist myself and i don't know why.