Soul Scraping

I haven't been writing. Everyday I sit myself down and say "today" only to find myself on my bed and night with all my thoughts unsorted as sleep takes me under. It's been months.

It's always struck me as strange and a little disturbing how swiftly my attention shifts from intense and riveted to uncaring and superficial. There are many things that I was good at, that I loved to do, that I felt I had real talent for, that simply fell by the wayside on my journey towards today. Talents lie dusty in my attic, cobwebs stretch across my dreams, and the man I am today is not the man I'd hoped to be.

I loved writing this blog. I don't know why, and I know it wasn't the sort of content that most people wanted to read or even had any interest in, but that even a few did and responded and question made me feel a little more confident about the dearest of my talents - writing.
So after many many unforgivable months of ignoring my metaphoric pen, here I sit, fresh out of the shower with the taste of coffee still thick on my lips, wondering just what the hell it is that I have to say.

But I didn't start this blog to say anything at all. I'm no preacher, no expert on any subject, nor very interesting in the important ways. I'm just another flawed wanderer searching for an oasis in this here desert of life. I write to understand that wandering. I write to understand the journey. And in the end I write just to write. This isn't soul-searching I do, it's soul-scraping.
Writing takes me away. And where I go there are no truths, nor any lies, and words can describe and overcome all evils. Where I go I am forgiven my false, and my suppressions, and my constant pretending. My skin doesn't writhe with the inertia of this life, and my dreams don't scratch at the insides of my eyelids, like good dogs locked in bad kennels.

I go to a place where she never walked away from my disregard, and she smiles slowly like I remember. And we walk down fragrant, monsoon-wet streets, our bodies fitting like jigsaw pieces side by side, her chin on my shoulder and her laughter in my soul. Then I return...and take a breath. All I can hear is my unquiet silence, and the traffic outside, and the petulant staccato of my keyboard, as I struggle to finish writing before my mind wanders away again.

That may be the truest reason behind these posts - the desire to nail my thoughts down. To make them sit still long enough for me to have a look at them. Will that interest anyone? Doubtful. But I'll be here, now and again, scratching at my third eye, wondering if there're any eyedrops for my condition.