I have not realized how many times I tried to write and how many times I gave up. The following was found in the old journal of sporadic entries from 1999 to 2002, which wasn't the only one started and then abandoned. I was blown away by the quality of my writing. I am glad I found courage not to give up anymore.
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It's the first to greet me in the morning. It's the last to wish me good night's sleep. It's in a sickly pale face of the moon; it's in the threatening frown of the clouds enclosing the sun.
It's so familiar, it's become a part of my identity, ME. It's been with me so long, I can hardly remember when I was free of its company. Maybe that's why I befriended it, because I never had anyone to take it's place. The imaginary friend of adulthood.
It hits unexpectedly, or should I say expectedly, since it's always there feasting on my self-confidence, preying on my consciousness.
When I used to write poetry, I would call it "My Pain". When it fits the schedule, I call it "PMS". Other poeple call it "Being moody". If I had a shrink, he would call it "Depression".
From the moment I open my eyes to the moment I sink into the bed -- it is always my companion.
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Looking for a job is like looking for a mate: full of bitter rejections, unfulfilled dreams, and missed opportunities.
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Why does every man, when he is with his male friends, turn into a belching monster, too eagerly laughing at their jokes about his own impotence?
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About Me
- Lyubov Yelinson
- I am: The Djembe Warrior Drummer Princess, The Belly Shaking Goddess, The Seeker, The Mystic, and The Writer in Quiescence.
I love it! Especially the comparison of what it is called. I like the "My Pain"..that is what I called it when I wrote poems too.
ReplyDeleteThanks, Kirsten! I wish people would understand Russian to appreciate all the poems I wrote when I was 17-18. I just reread them recently, some of them are brilliant. I can't believe I actually wrote that. I hope I can find a Russian publisher in the US who'd take them. And I can't translate them because translating Russian poetry into English is like castration!
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