Paradise Lost, Indeed

I’m giving myself an exercise.

To write for a specified period of time.

No goal length.

We are working for endurance, here.

I haven’t written in a long time and I just can’t seem to get into it. I can’t seem to enter it, I mean. I feel like I can’t find the door. The door into writing. I feel like all I see is a wall to a fortress and it is dark at night all the time. There are no holes in the wall and definitely no doors.

I’ve tried climbing the wall but it is all smooth stones with no ridges–nothing to even grab onto.

I just slip and slide right off onto my ass on the cold muddy ground.

I’m dirty.

I’m dirty on the ground.

But I do keep getting back up.

I get back up and I just stare at the wall. I stare at it trying to find any cracks or crevices or weak spots where I can begin to make my entry.

This wall is mighty thick. It’s strong. It is well-built.

But I so want in…and I don’t know why. I just do. It is cold and lonely on the outside of it. No one is out here with me. It is a desolate existence. It is dark and cold.

I don’t know what is on the other side. I’m just tired of being behind it.

…or am I in front of it and the other side is the “behind side”…?

Am I on the outside or am I on the inside? I don’t know how far this wall goes. It feels like it goes forever.

I feel like I just woke up here one day.

I woke up and my bright and shiny happy world had turned cold and dark and empty.

And I was stuck.

I was stuck in a former-heaven hell. Paradise lost, indeed.

Did I fall? Or did my world fall from me?

Since it is always dark here, all I want to do is sleep. The slightest thing tires me and I just close my eyes to my surroundings and curl up in the mud and dream.

I’ve been dreaming a lot lately.

In dreams is where I live. I dream and do not write them down. I don’t even store them in my memory. My dreams are my one-night stands. I love them and get my thrill and am gone as quickly as they are. On to another dream-lover.

I long to sleep in this place. I am a brilliant dreamer. I dream instead of write.

But I dream so much now that they come in overflows. My dreams now exhaust me. I awake still so tired. Too tired to scale the wall in front of me.

I’ve tried digging a hole under it. Because, in digging the hole, I have also built a muddy home and bed–where I can more comfortably dream.

So, now I have fun digging my hole in the mud of despair.

I would rather dig in the earth than climb a wall. I’d rather burrow deeper and deeper than ascend higher and higher.

I’d rather study the unknown depths beneath me in a bizarre reverse progression.

I AM getting somewhere. I am moving beneath the wall. I am overcoming it by undercoming it. I am now still dreaming as I press on to the other side and get past this massive obstacle placed before me.

I’ll show myself that I am resourceful and that I can find pleasure in any situation.

The lesson of the wall is fun with adversity and creative problem solving.

I try and try and try and get so bogged down and tired. I work so hard and harder and harder and beat myself up trying and want so much to achieve my goal and not give up that I exhaust all of my energy and blind myself to my own unseen resources. I blind myself to fun.  I blind myself to the pleasure I can be and create with and through me and only me.

I’m now enjoying the process of forming an underground tunnel. I don’t even care where it leads at this point. I’ve even been able to let go of the wall–I forget about it sometimes.

I still dream a lot. I’m still sleeping more than living. I’m still all alone. Although, I do notice more live creatures around me that a filled with fascination. Little insect and worm-y creatures here in the dark, wet Earth. THey don’t scare me. They make me feel less alone. I feel like Snow White in the forest when she wakes up with all the creatures around her. Only a much darker version of Snow White. Where she is less perfect–heavily flawed…an anti-heroine.

Too many ant-heroes these days–where are the anti-heroines? Does our society have not tolerance for them?

These are the things I think about when I’m awake. I think about how I fit into this world. I think about my role. And then that thinking tires me and I just want to go back to my underground bed of dirt to dream where I have no role and can fuck up and disappoint and everyone reacts with a smile and a laugh. No frowns or furrowed eyebrows.

Let the earthworms and millipedes crawl all over me. I feel like the queen of the dirt. I feel like an unworshipped goddess. I feel like a paralyzed Medusa.


About heathencomehome

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