Have I left too many parts of my life on the road I travelled?
Too many broken pieces?
I feel often that I am less me than I was a while back.
A steady decline, a rotting wound, a swollen vein has taken my place.
I have been tied too strongly to my thoughts to remember how to move. A part of me is now defined by inaction.
I lay in bed all morning, late into the afternoon and well into the evening.
I am askew.
When did I stop loving myself so?
I cannot even remember how to put two words together beautifully anymore.
Poetry has left me. It has escaped from the cracks I made to let the light in.
Everything I touch decays, yet I do not. Not that I wish to.
I see a face in the mirror I barely recognise. A voice distinctly different from what I remember I used to sound like.
My eyes are numb from trying to focus on a page with no words.
My nights are more often than not sleepless. And a pain has been steadily growing on my left temple. Or a little above it.
I cannot tell for certain.
I feel a compulsion to write down the garbled words that make their way into my thoughts. I’m trying, or I think I’m trying – to find a pattern, a rhythm, a rhyme, a meter, a word.
All I have is a garden path.