How Am I Going To Make It Right?

Finding myself bereft of the superimposition of an external narrative on my days, I went to the library. A brief stop home to divest myself of work-related things, and then back out the door, into a slight rain. Today was almost balmy compared to the temperatures we've had lately, so that further encouraged my decision to walk the distance required to scare up some more books on CD. For the last week, I've been listening to music at work, and I find that it does not, that it cannot distract me the way I seem to need to be distracted just now.

I feel exposed. Gutted. Raw. Something is trying desperately to make it to the surface and I suppose I should just let it. Such a feeling typically precedes an emotional, if not an artistic, breakthrough. It was not long ago that I was coaxing and courting this very thing. Being unhinged made for effective poetry revisions.

I found something useful in profound solitude, sitting at the apex of emptiness. I just can't seem to make myself want to go back to that again. Prayer has offered some solace--asking God to help me, to ground me, to forgive me for my shenanigans. But what I suspect is that I probably need to cry. To really cry over it, whatever it is.