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Posts Tagged ‘sorrow’

People have been asking…no begging…no nagging me to update my blogs. 3women was created for the sole purpose of developing a creative blog, and well, when one of the authors doesn’t feel very creative, the blog suffers.

It’s like having a palette of greys, whites, and blacks when all you want are rich reds, bright yellows, and sultry blues. And then, finding the will to paint, the will to sit down and paint, write, create is near excruciating. It’s embarrassing as talented as I suppose I am and as educated and privileged as I am that I sit here with severe writer’s block, slowly slipping into the worst kinds of sorrows, anxieties and fears.

Look at the world around us. Take a good look. Wars. Famon. Poverty. Hate. Murder suicides over unpaid bills. Uncertain economy. Dow Jones. Rent is due. Massive layoffs. Obesity. Early retirements. Angry emails. Lethargic bodies lying on couches watching the world go by. Lack there of’s.Career changes. Cold weather.

Nothing’s really that funny or worth writing about. Revisiting my past with creativity seems ridiculous when I can barely find reason to live in this moment. I know I’m a bit dreary and negative, but aren’t we all lately?

I promise to write more. I hope my two other women will too. Let’s just get this shit out, even if no one reads it.

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Sorrow

Sorrow is a tricky thing. Sometimes it’s there with you in the morning, like messy hair and stale breath- it’s just there. Other times it suddenly comes upon you like a sneeze or a muscle cramp. It’s a reminder that you are human, susceptible to life’s complexities and pain.

There are some periods when sorrow will linger- a chronic feeling that sometimes gets better after spending time in the sunlight; sometimes gets worse after finding an old photo or hearing an old message on the machine.

It is not a scratch that can be buffed out but rather a stain that will always discolor part of the soul.

I am the sorrowful. I am the lingering sad that hovers even on OK days. I am the sudden urge, the sudden loss of breath when pain becomes too unbearable. I have the ability to go to bed smiling and wake in such anguish, tortured by horrifying dreams.

It is as real as anything: leaves on a tree, wind on my face- sorrow is real. It is no trend or fashion. It is a very part of who I am and the side effects of that sorrow lead to the fears, the lazy, the wall between publishing and living alone with notebooks of writings and unfinished canvases stacked high.

I am the sorrowful.

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I really haven’t noticed the sunny, breezy weather today. Fall is supposed to be my favorite season, and yet I find myself longing for winter. There’s a snow globe on my desk reminding me that business trips end, usually with a hug and a silly souvenir. La Joconde (Mona Lisa) looks at me with that half smile, a secret she’s hiding for centuries. The gloss on the postcard is wearing thin now that she’s been moved to so many different places; different offices, apartments, boxes…She’s even looking at me now as I write, and she’s taunting me.

I got that postcard in Paris. It was winter then and I was in love with France. I came face to face with La Joconde that season. No one was in the room. the Louvre was empty of tourists who on any other day would shuffle through the line to get a glimpse of the small, unimpressive painting, then ushered along to see some other work of art in some other hall. Her face has been an enigma for years.

I look at her and see “almost’s”. She is almost flirtatious. She is almost sad. She is almost smiling. She is almost crying. She almost can read my mind because maybe she too has been sad for a long time and longs for a winter. I wonder if she is beautiful like I wonder if I am beautiful to anyone who has seen my face. I’m no masterpiece. I’m not framed in some famous musuem.

I have my bathroom mirror and she has the world.

The funny thing about sad is that more often then not, I have no real reason to be sad. I’m selfish I suppose. I want things I can’t have. I want to be transformed into someone I’m not. I “gimmie gimmie!” more than anything. And somehow, even as I look back on my trips to Paris, seeing Mona before me, and all the other things I have seen, done, eaten, had…

….incomplete.

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