So Play It Back In Reverse.

("..Like that good hole album, I can live through this, I have lived through worse...so play it back ...mmmhmmhmhm..yeah? You know the song?)

Recently I've hit a block. A giant concrete, rough to the touch, sitting in my front yard white-trashing up the whole neighbourhood block.

It's grey and ugly dreary, and stealing all of my words.

Nasty sneaky thing.

It's a damper on my spirits, creative failure, writers block- whichever way I decide to spin it.

Underneath the words; the labels, the explanations and elaborations, the scrawling black disguises, it is one thing.

One thing only, and complex enough in it's singularity.

A denial. Of my voice, myself, my existence.

I have knit up so much of my identity into words.

I think predominately through words, visual scripts, lettered pages, loud speaker system wired through my brain that crackles and hums and whispers.

I show myself through words, I choose to speak or not speak, and always, always I write.

I can spill hopes, dreams, many fears, a million associative memories (apparent to myself alone), into the space of a few lines.

Seal with ink, sign with half a name, lock away in the back of a drawer or launch into cyberspace.

In this way I live on, leading an inarguable existence.

I hold the proof, don't believe me? I can produce official papers.

I have been denying myself the ability to write. Because at the moment I am leading a reluctant existence.

In the same way, I have been unable to clean my room.

It's been three weeks. And the suitcase still sits there, in the centre of my floor. It's contents spilling over into a drawer, overturned in the midst of last minute frenzied packing.

I stumble over it every time I leave my room.

But to clean the space, would be to acknowledge my presence within it.

I no longer want to eat, or cook, or visit the grocery store. My favourite meals were with you, sitting in the middle of your lounge room floor, greasy fingers, and the television's blaring mingling with the incessant noise of children.

And I won't sleep.

Shaped around your back, I could hear your heartbeat.

Smell your skin.

Your hair, my cheek.

This bed is built for one, and I'm alone again.

But, in a few weeks, it will be one month.

One month before I leave again, travel back in time, to where I was before.

I was better there.

For the meantime, I'm unwell, and without you.

And the morning light slips under the blinds, cuts like knives.

Soft scars underneath closed lids.

But, enough with the musery. On with the bloggery!

Oh my, I just used an exclamation mark...so you know I'm serious, I'm emerging from this rut fo' real.

(also I want to change the name of my blog, it IRKS me every time I see it. And have you ever been irked? It's not at all comfortable and it itches. Oh great and glorious Internet, send me some inspiration, a sign, anything...rename my blog)