Repetitive G-sharp bleeps while motors rev and slow break into my quiet fixation of composing. Harsh grating pulls me out of the world of words to look out the window. They are clearing the driving area of our parking lot down to the pavement. Our cars will once again hop the frozen curve when we choose to pull out. It is an irritating by product in living where snow fall is not a novelty for many months of the year.
Better this, though, than the car damaging spring ruts on unplowed side streets when spring’s warming sun conspires with the friction of tires wearing fixed paths deeper and deeper down through the icy layers. I think of those icy edges growing higher until tires can no longer choose which inch of the road they would like to move to. They are trapped in the pathways of others if they want to make progress to the next corner where choice can again be made of which way to go.
It is like the thoughts from which the sounds pulled me. This place in my life feels fixed by rigid boundaries. I can’t see the way to pull out of this bumpy, jagged chasm that holds my life in this litany of aloneness that characterizes my life outside of work.
I write hundreds of words that never make it past my memory letting them fly, unsaved on the pages of my mind or trapped in the locked deposit box of my journals. It is scary when the world of words seems more real than the world of living. Insulated from myself, I have become alienated from the world this body inhabits. I look but don’t see, listen but don’t hear. I touch the earth but it doesn’t touch me.
I send words spinning along the threads of posts and comments. My inner self clamors to be heard, fighting the quietness that has become my life. I grasp at the words written on my screen. My inner self stirs when the words of others bump against my reality creating reverberations in my spirit. This body I wear seems to be the alien, trapping the life inside that longs to find a community of others. The portals in my finger send the S.O.S out into the void hungering for harmonies for these rhythms and melodies flowing within. I am here, at this place in my life, not seeing the end to this in-between existence.
Stopping is not the answer. The ruts that hold me will simply deepen in this place, trapping me between turning points as the iciness of this rut responds to the heat of my longings in friction against the resistance of my fears. The rut will only deepen the ridges that hold me here. I must drive on. This place is not the journey. It is only a moment to be lived in so that the moments ahead can also be. If I abandon the journey here I will never find that turning point ahead. The beginning of the answer lies in the choice I make in all the moments of my life.