I am wracked and not even trying these days.
I lie on my crooked sheets, try being cautious
and genial. Nothing so preposterous as making up
stories. Nothing doing, Tessa. I practice rocking
on a chair instead. All that creaking.
I am turning into a frog princess. I needed
your antidote. Soiled, amongst the waterlilies,
croaking at the moon. My croaking, does it
bother you? Arrowing at what? Sullenly,
I don’t know the meaning of meaning anymore.
No more melodious rush. I read and read.
Read like it’s a drug. Even the stories,
they’re like wind. Can’t even grasp so
the threads came loose. Someone, the author,
had tied them into an interesting knot.
But they came undone in the slight way mind
skipped and gathered meaning. Water slapping
like waves. Maybe this is what ageing likes
to do– to be literate but utterly destructible,
and to ask, where’s your real voice?
Prompt: It’s been a while, folks. I’m taking a breather, I suppose. If you remember, the theme of our current journal is “Song Of Myself”. I’m addressing that theme and asking you to do the same. Do it like an internal monologue so the reader can listen to your thoughts. Thoughts are pretty interesting. Without thoughts we would be empty vessels, wouldn’t we? To which, some smart alec would respond, Empty vessels make the most noise. The point being? Is there a point? You tell me.