I’ve realized that I live my life like a country summer night…one of the relentlessly cruel kind that insists upon its own flawed magic, birthed from an intense heat wave. It’s the kind only spoken of in country songs, which I only find comforting in that stretch of time from June to August. It’s the kind that is beautiful and alluring, but only breeds a haze of confusion. It’s the kind when the heat lightning strikes too many times.
I live my life like a damsel in distress, bouncing between hopes, dreams, fears, and fantasies…and sometimes I forget to just stop being hungry for a moment and let my food digest. I forget to just breathe and turn off that tornado in my mind…if only.
I slide around on dewy grass, with my clothes sticking to my sweaty body trying to decide if I like the madness or not. Sometimes I feel the sweetness, and the air is thick honey driving the taste buds of my creativity. Other times the atmosphere just weighs me down, and I carry it’s girth on my limbs like a live oak does the moss after a ruthless rain storm.
It’s been raining a lot lately, and it’s a boiling mist. It’s a sauna, just smothering me in its far reaching arms. It got so thick I couldn’t see, and I could no longer make sense or romance of the steam fueling an unhealthy thirst in me. I kept drinking in my favorite poisons, reaching for understanding, but only receiving feelings of being water boarded. I needed to regroup. I could see my self in the middle of a William Butler Yeats poem, “turning and turning, the widening gyre/the falcon cannot hear the falconer, things fall apart/the center cannot hold.” I was in a routine, a rut, a churning, resulting in madness. I had come undone. I was on the floor wondering how to get back up, and was only able to when I just let go of what I was holding onto…those nasty little ideals and worries clinging to me convincing me that I need them.
Sometimes a person just has to throw their hands in the air and jump into the coolness of dark waters. I had to take that leap of faith, let go of the night, even the parts that still beckon me in lascivious tones, and jump screaming into freedom. Sometimes it’s appropriate to drop everything in your hands and leave the mess laying in the screwed up pile it lands in…then just walk the hell away, whistling perhaps, banking on the breath coming in and of your own non-failing lungs, and only taking with you those that still loved you when you thought you were finished. Sometimes the best thing to do is crumble, and look for the things that are left standing, because then you are truly home, in a cool, dry place where you are safe from whatever had a hold of you in that thickness that is no more.