A Dance with Melancholy

Journal entry dated 04/21/08

Going within...

I spent the weekend busy with errands and social engagements. What happens is that I become full of many things. Emotions, thoughts, whispers, questions, desires...rhetoric.

I don't know if they belong to me and I feel out of sorts. Somewhere in-between. I'm floating, but being pulled down. I pick up the phone to call someone but there's no one I want to talk to..no one that really understands (so I think) and it's like a chaotic, demented, sad tale. Tones and pitch rising like an aria then plummeting down to pay a visit to Hades. In the Underground.

Dancing with melancholy.

A contrived smile on my lips.

The mask is pretty and distracting. Ahh, but the soothsayers know better. The yogis, mystics, the Mad and Enchanted. They know it, too.

A brave face with sparkling sad eyes.

Piles of books waiting for the chance to be devoured. Explored. And the little girl inside waits. Somewhat impatiently. Tired of speaking with ghosts and gangsters...she waits for the hostess to drop her pen...and dream...so that she can tell her what she is unwilling to hear...in her waking and walking state.

The small breaks are short. Streamline after streamline they come. They have been waiting for this chance. They jump up excitedly like rainbow colored sand crabs when they see the ink change to black.

And the dreams. They come. Vividly. And with old, painful history. Reminders of unhealed wounds and unpaid debts...the few chances of redemption or ridicule. Sometimes both.

My inner voice yearns to be heard. Yet, I question the true owner. Is it a voice from beyond? The neighbor's? Does it matter?

I would think not..I suppose...

I struggle with the idea of writing fiction. It is what many call, 'telling lies'. However, the idea of writing a story masked as fiction seems more fitting.

But, dare I ask the question: Am I hiding or protecting?

After some speculation, I feel there is a need but for reasons such as integrity. That is a required ingredient in the telling of a tale full of love, romance, magic, adventures, tragedy and redemption. Not to mention the mystery of anonymity.

The peaceful, poet warrior with a sword in one hand and a pen in the other. Journeying through her own subconscious battle of inner workings, that at times...while wading through metaphorically...seem to coagulate into mud or worse: quicksand....
That's when you fall
down
down
down
into the darker areas. Doors are barred. Rusty chains decorate some entrances. There's a dank smell and no light. There is anger here. And fear. Loneliness and confusion. Unsatiated hunger. It is far from pleasant here in this place. The little girl sometimes comes here to skip down the halls. Her shoes knocking heel to toe like tiny hooves as they resound again and again, a reminder of the world's indifference.

It is in solitude that I find some solace.

Though the dark places are unpleasant...it is necessary to have the courage to explore its regions so that when you reach the inevitable end (and yes it's there)...the light is intoxicating and flagrant.

A Spring blooms here as well.

I can see it far beyond in the distance.

Closing my eyes....

And I'm there. A warmth fills me and the little girl is laying in a field full of dandelions. The red ribbons in her hair seem to glisten in their movement..oh, wait...they're ladybugs!

Butterflies decorate the sky and the ground. Little clusters of color moving about in an erratic fashion.

These are the Fairy messengers leaving only love notes in every flower they visit.

This is what I take with me when I journey back to the World As It Is.