Rolling a rockSo I did the poetry reading again last night and each time it has gone better. A couple of people even whooped when I read On a train, so that felt good. I wrote a new poem specially, but I rushed through it. I couldn't help thinking that all I wanted to do was whisper it to the person I wrote it for.
I have a lot of things that I have to grit my teeth and bear at the moment, and it's one of the lesser things, all in all, that she doesn't, won't ever, want me to do that, but being unwanted is a feature of my life. I have to take care that I don't allow it to become part of who I am, that each time someone kicks me in the balls and says that that is how they intend to care for me, I don't believe that this is something about me. For years I did, but I was sick. Now I'm feeling well and have to believe that even if I do seem to face a mountain, I will roll my rock to the top of it somehow and it will not roll back and crush me again.
I wish it meant something. I wish I had some way of making myself mean something. But I am just a quiet, soft person, the kind of person who sits at the fringes wishing that someone would look at him, the kind of person no one gets much moved by, the kind of person you take or leave like that. I'm trying to be okay with it. Sisyphus was cheerful and I will be too.