You know what terrifies me, makes me go cold and yucky inside? Well, I’ll tell you.
Not being able to articulate myself.
Losing my voice.
Not finding the right language.
Waking up without a story.
O’ My dear God, forgetting might be the most unbearable of all.
My mother told me I used to walk around with a tablet and pencil when I was little taking notes, writing words, scribbling poetry, observing the world around me. I couldn’t get enough. I wanted to remember every. little. detail.
For example, I found this written on a slip of paper recently inside one of my old books:
“I want to write about faces I especially like, expressions, eyes, smiles. They really tell more than words.” –Kim Sisto, 7 years old. ( I got a kick out of that )
My daddy told me when I was five years old, he heard me sobbing in my bedroom. When he asked what was wrong, I said, “Why am I here? When I die, will I then be nothing?”
Even at a young age, I desperately wanted to be something, someone.
When you’re a parent, you better damn well be able to answer those questions.
I still have beliefs, imaginings, and a million ideas crowded inside my brain like wild bitches crying to be released. I still have a heart, which beats erratically and outrageously when I meet a person who excites me, moves me, causes my petals to blossom.
But sometimes, not often, I do awaken without words, without purpose, without soul, without a story, without hope of a better tomorrow.
On those days, I fall to my knees in prayer, I bake chocolate chip cookies, I make fettucine Alfredo, I call my big fat Italian family, I remember, and I look around observing what remains…
And I simply utter, “Thank You.”
—-Dear, Reader, when you become blue, what do you do? Have you found your purpose on this earth?
—Leave your name in the comments and where you are from. Give me a sentence about what you desire. xx