silent-and-invalid

I believe that I am a godless person. I pondered this thought today while wondering down town, partly, because I didn't go for a run this morning, and therefore was trying to soothe some of my anxiety over that and the oatmeal I ate this morning, partly because it was gorgeous outside, too beautiful to waste sitting alone in a tiny apartment, and third, for the very reason of not sitting alone. I wore a black knee length cotton dress with a neckline more suited to the beach and I wondered if it was perhaps too low for strolling the streets and the Lake Okanagan boardwalk. Then it occurred to me that I didn't mind it, and if another was, in fa

I never really thought that my father supported my writing. I knew that, in some ways, he did. It was my passion, so he respected it. From time to time I would ask him to read over a piece. He would take a few minutes and read at least most of the pieces I presented, glance over other parts of them.  After he would finish his generic response would always be, "It's good, Meg, Good job." Sometimes he would toss in an additional comment, "Not a lot of action in it, though." Or, "A bit anticlimactic, don't you think?" When I was younger I always took it personally.  Good? That's all? He doesn't understand, the whole point was the dialogue! It w

Run fast for me love, I won't last much longer standing here without you I'd run with the wind to you, but I've been running so long I can't continue Sometimes I feel like I am a great marble pillar, holding everyone in my world aloft But my world is a heavy one, and my  marble knees are cracking Run fast for me love, help me lift this weight and throw it clear away When you call me yours, its all I've ever needed to hear When you're here that's all I need Run fast for me love I can stand tall not a moment more But I cannot sway or bend with any but you you are the only one I do not fear You are the only one I trust Run fast for me

I don't know how to write a love story. It was never something I wanted, or needed to write. I was guarded, protected by my own tightly woven shield built of artistic words and ideas, standing tall and blocking the line of sight on either side.  I think that I had convinced myself that I couldn't love as much as the actual; wouldn't love. Sure, there were pursuers of me, those who saw the woven net and though to loosen the knots. To weaken my lines I thought. My heart only ever bled once, for once. I waited for him; I starved for him, cried over him. Though in the end, his memory simply became another string tightly woven in blocking just a

I'm still awake                       ...                                   Waiting for you