I've been wanting to write lately. I don't know what to say or how to say it, but I want to write. I want to form words and phrases and make them make sense, because it seems like nothing makes sense and words are more easily controlled than people, or emotions, or life, or the breeze that changes the direction of the sails. And I want to make something beautiful, because I do not feel beautiful. I feel fat, and ugly, and imperfect, and like I've been spit out on the floor like chewed leather.
I read a post similar to this from one of my favorite bloggers. She is from the same city I grew up in, and now lives in Portland, Or. with her beautiful little family. She described my exact mood in more perfect words than I ever could and she named them so appropriately. I, too, am mildly melancholy. Not the kind of melancholy that brings sweaters and long weekends without the soul-cleansing powers of showers. But the kind that sort of sits, just outside of your grasp. The kind that sinks in slowly, and leaves even slower. The kind that comes with release and holding on. And, boy, do I have a lot to release. And I struggle to want to hold one, because what if I can't hold it tight enough? Or worse, what if I hold on so tight I strangle it?
I love the power of words, and I only wish I could find better ones to say I love you.