Rambling

Rambling

         I sit here in the moment, uncomfortable chair beneath me. The chair never falls in the right place. I raise and lower it but to no avail it continues to show its discomfort for me. I always fancied being a writer but never thought I would have much talent for it. My mother was the writer, always finding the perfect word, forming the perfect sentence. It almost reflected the perfect form she had become. This is what happens with the dead, they are romanticized, celebrated and mourned over. She dies one month shy of 16 years ago. My is that a long time.

         I turned 26 last month, finally making the transition to later 20's. Not quite to the age when you are supposed to have it all together but still at the age when staying up late and passing out drunk begins to be frowned upon. It feels like I am straddling two worlds between adulthood and responsibility. Anxiety follows me like a shadow and depression has become its companion. I go from manic depressive and self-deprecating to a raging feminist who cares not for the world. I would like to be able to romanticize these feelings but even in my fantastical mind I fall short.

         My marriage is the subject of my happiness and tears. I experience my happiest moments with Pete but feel that my marriage has come to represent an orchid. I continue to water the roots of my marriage with attention and patience but can never get the damn thing to bloom. I keep waiting and waiting. I do have several actual orchids. They don't die and I even was able to magically get one to bloom once. But to no avail it's as if all the magic has left my fingers and they sit there with their droopy green leaves looking at me day in and day out almost laughing away my efforts.

         They are all ramblings of a mad woman or perhaps just a fanatical one. I like to think I can write with systematic patience, drawing beautiful pictures with my words, molding them to fit an evenly dispersed story that flows like a soft smooth creek but rather it ends up a tangle of ribbons that are to frustrating to take the time with to disconnect. Even my word usage is rambling. Where do I go from here? What is my story? What is my end?

E.M. Johnson