So here is my little bit of writing from yesterday. This came from this writing prompt, that I gave to my students. ( I actually like the way this starts... and may continue this one out to see what happens. My list of important things was: Food, Family, Shelter, Contact, and Hope. I chose to exclude "hope" from someone's life.)
There is nothing. No light, no dark, no life, no death, and no possibility of their return.....nothing. And its like this every night. Most people dream of nice things: flying, falling, or being chased by axe murderers,but I dream of nothing. And please don't confuse this with not dreaming, because that isn't even close. I dream literally of nothing, of vacuum, of void. It scares me so badly sometimes that when I wake, my face aches from having cried so hard in my sleep. At least that's how it used to be. Lately, for the past couple weeks, I have been carrying these dreams with me for a bit. I keep that ice, that steel feeling inside me... and that is even scarier. I usually break free from these feelings by breakfast. Something about a pleasant little bowl of Cheerios doesn't allow for such things, but that initial look in the mirror when I first wake up, my vacant eyes looking back at me, looking like concrete, or a graveyard, or just huge, dark, empty holes, is enough to make me question my sanity. Looking at myself in the mirror every morning this week has been like waking up to a serial killer in my room.
It's 7:30. Cheerios, milk, spoon, little red bowl, even sugar, all set neatly on the table in front of me. Small glass of orange juice... the table in front of me looks like some sort of health advocational commercial from Saturday morning television. I've opened up my windows and spring air is freely flowing through my kitchen. I have a bright yellow polo shirt and old jeans on.... nothing... zero... In my head there is only a subtle feeling that I should be feeling something. I take a spoonful of cereal and lift it drippingly to my mouth, so much cardboard and water, like sandpaper in my throat.
I remember my mother making breakfast when I was six, the last year I actually knew my mother, and where a deep seated sadness used to reside, now there was only space and memory. I saw her like a stranger, the one who had protected me and who had died. Again my soul pinged out, looking for reaction, for pain, sorrow, hatred, but nothing echoed back.
You touched the core and brought some back; the ache is in my chest. THIS is what living is about and what writing was meant to do, I think, and it gives me hope. What a gift! Thank you, Dave.
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