Should I begin with a question?

I'm very good at a lot of things. I just said in a job interview recently, and honestly, that one of my greatest strengths is problem solving. So why can't I solve this one? I've wanted to for probably the last decade. And if I'm being honest, I've always wanted to solve this one. How is it that so many things, social things, look so easy, and in my mind I can absolutely do them if I tried. I watch other people do them, note what they're doing, and tell myself, "I can totally do that," but in reality when I actually try, they just don't work for me like they do for them? My solution has been avoidance. But that's not a real solution. I think it's time to force some changes. Now that I've set my mind on it, I think I'll find a way.

Complacency

The stale air pressed in all around, threatening to suffocate. His eyes darted between the closed window with its false promises of relief, and the empty box in front of him. The delivery had arrived unnoticed. No fanfare. No signature. Not even a knock interrupted the silence. The box would have remained on the doorstep until morning had the stillness in the apartment not driven him to step outside, where the air was just as hot but, he dared to hope, not as still. The tingling of his skin as the breeze caught his arm would be the only respite he could find from the suffocation, but it may be enough. No return address. He sat and stared at it. A thick line of black ink crawled its way across the top in the shape of his name, while smaller swoops and dashes had made sure it reached his door. There was no wind today.

POP!

The silence was broken as his laundry room key found its way violently through the seal protecting the contents of the small, brown box in front of him. He slid his hand into the breach and opened it wide, providing fresh stabs from the dull key as he reached each the edge. There is a unique excitement to opening a package, conjuring memories of Christmas morning, or a visit from Grandma; doubly so when the package is unexpected. The contents of the box are amplified for a time beyond what they are worth.

This package was empty.

The box turned absently in his hand, the ticking of the clock on the mantle growing louder with each passing second. Eyes focusing on nothing, he allowed the time to pass, acknowledging each moment as another step back to normalcy. It was simply an empty box. Probably a mistake. No way to tell where it came from. He wasn't expecting anything anyway. As he focused his gaze on the wall, the clock faded back into the background. After a moment, the refrigerator cycled on, and drowned it out completely. He placed the box between the board game and the basket cluttering up his counter, and returned to his seat, not giving it another thought.

Freeform 11 May

Hope springs from an unexpected source. The ways of the past no longer bind me. The future ahead is bright and full of possibility. I wish sometimes that things would be easier, but no, it is the difficult times that test us, just as steel is forged in flame. Really, could I be any more cliche? Still, these are the things in my head, and so they end up on the page. I will keep writing again, not because it is good, but because it needs to be done if I'm ever going to find my voice again. It's tough starting over. So much time lost. I think I will do a song a week again, and maybe that will assist me in this endeavor. I often wonder about the future, but lately as my mind wanders, it chases things it does not need to know right now. And so I stumble, but do not fall. That is my current state, and while it is sometimes discouraging, I try to remember the years I spent with my face in the dirt, and realize that I have come a long way. And I still have a long way to go. So this encouragement will carry me forward into the new land which God is opening up, and I will be successful there, and happy.

Freeform 10 May

I haven't written in so long that I feel like I've forgotten how. I'm starting back in the only way I can think of, just literally writing free flowing, free form, whatever enters my mind for ten minutes, and then posting it. Perhaps by the time I'm done, something useful will have happened in my brain to get me back on track again. As it stands, I really feel like I need to work on my imagery. Maybe I'll try to describe what I'm doing in the most vivid way possible. The air is stifling, and my chair is in just about the only place it fits anymore. Empty boxes, clothing, unfinished projects, and musical equipment have long since replaced the floor of my apartment. So here I sit in front of my desk, staring at the blue light that exacerbates my poor sleep hygiene. I forgot how to spell hygiene. Stupid red line reminded me. I just took a typing test tonight. Over 50 words per minute. Not stellar, but proficient. Anyway, the dim light from the bathroom lights my keyboard as my eyes drift from fingers to screen. I never did learn to type without occasionally using these crutches. I try sometimes, but it's just easier to look, and as I re-learned tonight, I'm proficient enough without better form. My desk is no more or less cluttered than my bedroom floor. Music notes from past years' lessons, a hat, a battery long since used up by an old camera which sits next to it, atop a stack of old paperwork; a mixture of old documents and trash, which I have yet to sort. I know I ought to complete the projects that are strewn about this room, but with my back turned to them, I can go on ignoring them for a while, and instead look back and forth between the screen, and my ever-moving fingers, as they skitter across the keys, making a dull clacking, the only sound besides the pilot light on my gas heater. And so the time will finally elapse, and I'll post this, and move on, probably to watch television and fall asleep on the couch. It's much less crowded there, though it does nothing for my back. I suppose this is the end of it for tonight. We'll have another go of it soon, and hopefully be writing again in no time.