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i stand on the porch, smoking a cigarette, a chilly spring breeze disturbing the quiet night and invading my collar. i stand there and watch the empty street, silent but for the rustling of the leaves. a single light glows in the window of an apartment on the corner and i wonder if the occupant is restless, yet weary as i am, encapsulated in solitude. i step down into the yard, dead leaves crunching beneath my feet. i can feel their cold crispness and briefly ponder their brittleness and sharpness as i take my final puff and flick the butt into the night. god forbid there should be a quickly accumulating trail of my addiction within the boundaries of my dwelling. twelve years and i still attempt to hide the fact i smoke like a child hiding behind the school toilets. i turn and walk back into the house, the cat - a stray that i took pity on - meows at me as if begging not to be sent out into the cold. i look at my bed before i turn off the last light, not empty, my daughter is sleeping soundly and warming the blankets. my heart is filled with love and adoration of my child, and yet, looking at that unempty bed i feel my heart and arms beginning to ache with emptiness. i know that when i rest my head on that pillow i will be alone, left to drift into unconsciousness without the love and comfort i crave. how can i yearn and desire so intensely and yet be consumed by my fear of the intimacy? how can i long to hold a lover in my arms, to caress her skin, breathe her in, sleep with the knowledge that she will be there when i wake, and yet, be so petrified of losing my sanctuary that i will not even look beyond my house to find her? i know she is there, somewhere, willing me to find her, wanting me to crack my shell and let a little life seep into me. but i am still scared. scared of giving my love too easily, scared of not giving my love at all. so many facets to my fear, each time it is turned the light bounces off and i catch another glimpse of an illusion. i no longer know what is real. the world seems glazed, hazy, almost untouchable, a mirage. i feel dead inside at times, almost as if i have forgotten how to feel. a silhouette in the window on the corner. my mind flips and i am back to wondering what the owner of the shadow is thinking. i wonder if there are any darkened eyes upon me as i once again stand on my porch. the flame of my cigarette lighter temporarily blinding me to everything except the periphery. perhaps that is what has created my melancholia, living too much in the periphery. always standing on the edge, looking on and loving others' joys but too afeared of failure to capture my own. i wonder if i can increase my field of view - allow my full vision to return, as it does when the shock of the flame in the dark becomes a memory. do i have the courage to stop standing on the outer? can i exorcise myself long enough to take a step and start participating in life instead of simply observing? my lids are growing heavy, i follow my path and flick another butt over the fence, once again evict the cat, and seal myself in for another night in my unempty, not cold bed. |
phoenix mckenna © Fri 7 September, 2001