Floating the Grout

Just shy of a year ago I started this blog as something different for me. A venue for truth rather than fiction. Prose rather than poetics. A blank map upon which I had hoped to plot the course of my changes.

It started out fine. I wrote in complete sentences that strangely did not rhyme. I swapped fiction for non. Writing as though I was having a discussion with the therapist I need, but still don't have. Popping paragraphs like Prozac. Until it began to make sense. Or maybe it just didn't matter anymore that it never had.

But after a few months of that I gradually began losing my grip on the mission. Myself was overtaking me again. Heavy on the metaphor and the license to tinker with what actually is. The prose becomes poetic without my intervention. My fingers. My mind work freely of my own agenda. I seek the perfect words. The gasped expression of untold emotions. Truth is an afterthought. A series of unrelated threads which are woven together. To make the pattern which quenches my desire to create something that is entirely my own in a world full of only strangers.

And that's where I get lost. Or they do. Trying to rescue the person strangled in the words. As if she were real. Thinking what I write is derivative of what I feel. To a point yes. But no. It's a creation. A hunk of marble chiseled down until I find an image worth telling.

I am not waiting to be found inside this labyrinth of pasted together pauses. Life. When it's important always moves so slow. Cures flirting with addictions. Especially as time wears on. And the spaces between strangers expand. People and places scratched together into this awkward mosaic. I am behind it. Not inside. It's never been my truth. It's always been just wishful thinking.

Staging the grout between the tiles as ceramic hands wait for their adhesive to dry. So that they might hold for the first time what's always been in their grasp.