Unfinished, four years and two months apart

I found this in a spot I used to write a lifetime or three ago, and I could've felt the words this morning just the same:

I want to write.

I want to love.

I want to show the girls the possibilities of a life well lived.

I want to become the women I admire most.

I want to chase down every fleeting fantasy I ever let go because of fear or doubt or indecision.

I want to give comfort and friendship and all the right things.

But most days I barely make it past coffee before wanting to give up.

The steps that follow the front door seem impossibly trying.

Most days, the ocean of energy it takes to feign indifference is dry before I'm dressed for work.

So I don't write anymore.  Nothing worth reading at least.

I don't love anymore.  

My example of how to keep putting one uninspired foot in front of the other is the only example  I offer the girls these days.

Those women I admire get further and further away every day that I'm stuck in the past.

And, the few who tried to stay see now that I have nothing to offer them worth holding onto.

So there is only this.  Deafening silence.  Walls unscaled.  Bridges burned.  And wounds unhealed.

This isn't living, and I know that.  Waiting for a reason to try


And this morning's unfinished attempt:

It's quiet this morning.  A peaceful quiet.  The kind that comes after the choice I wasn't sure of.  The kind of quiet that doesn't really hurt too much.  The dog has been let out and fed his breakfast.  I've had the first cup of slightly bitter coffee and we've retired back to bed for his post-yogurt and egg nap.  But the lonely isn't as harsh this Sunday morning.  Maybe I'm just finally used to the acceptance of it.  Maybe the paw resting on my belly- the closest I've come to being the little spoon in recent memory- is comfort enough.   Maybe I really have finally been rendered empty.  Truthfully, I hope so.

Two different mornings, four years and five inches apart.  One day maybe I'll finish something again.