Tender Heart

I’ve tried writing for a week or so now. Not as if I’m blocked or anything, I just can’t feel I have anything to say at the moment. The irony of that is I have a lot of tabs open in my head. Partial searches, pieces of thoughts, incremental spaces, and lots of feelings. Nothing seems to add up to much. I’m not even doing this to talk to anyone but myself, so I suppose for that one reader, this writer is disappointed I can’t produce for her. Not right now anyway. Maybe later. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe a month from now. Maybe never.

I think I’m tired. We all are. I’m tired of a lot of things. Things I can put effort into controlling. Things I can’t. Big pandemic things. Small I should clean out the refrigerator things. It’s tiring. My brain hurts. What’s worse is my heart hurts too. I cry at anything. And that’s saying something for someone who hasn’t really stopped crying over losses for … wow, awhile now. When do we get to pump the breaks on the ache? Maybe replace it with a bit of bawdy joyful fun. Maybe a lot of laughs. I don’t know, maybe a trip for ice cream.

I think I’m tired. My heart aches.

Is time speeding up, is the race over?

Did I miss the show, did I arrive too late?

I think I’m tired. My heart aches.

Will you love me now, will you hold my hand?

Where does your heart grow, where do I plant the seed?

I think I’m tired. My heart aches.

Most days I haven’t any idea what I’m doing but keeping it all going. Churning and humming along as it’s been constructed for us. As it’s been willed to us. Running to what? Running from whom? I don’t know. I’m exhausted and reader – me, I’m reader – it isn’t ideal, but it won’t last. And if it does, you’ll just keep dusting yourself off and maybe tackle the swimming self-doubt one open tab at a time. Maybe. Maybe isn’t always no. Maybe.

You’re tired. You’re alive.

You’re heart aches. It’s on fire to love.

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