The loss of it all
Every dance move springing with joy, suppressed to still sadness, rigid foetal position in bed worrying.
Every joyous outburst of song silenced to worry if women would think me too much.
Every care free bite of food now a guilt ridden stress as my body belongs to a torturous mixture of wanting and detesting mens gaze and avoiding womens scorn, criticism or worst of all competition.
Every desire to write, act, dance and sing reduced to morbid self loathing at the loss of it all, the worry of it all, the confusion of my being being wrong and if its not wrong what does that mean?
I have seen glimpses into gentle family homes and each time I needed to eat bread to suppress the sadness it brought up.
People like Danielle and Bonnie exist in this world and I barely can believe it.
Who would I have been with them as mothers? We would have talked about you God.
I think the only people that have truly known my heart are my fellow writers of sad music, their allowance of minor strings I will always be grateful for. Thank you.
I think the only people that truly know me are characters in films Ive devoured at 2am in the dark, allowed to cry, mourn, feel along with them as none of that was allowed in my childhood where power play and derision ruled the air as much as beauty, tranquillity and real conversation ruled Elliots Itallian home.
I know you know me God but you know me so well I barely dare go to you, you will tell me so much, with so much love that has been void my whole life and I will buckle at the loss of it all and the total, utter loss of self.
Lost to such insanely futile things, losing time, irreplaceable time for strangers who I don’t know and they don’t know me.
Oh God, The great regrettable loss of it all.
L’ame évaporée, my soul is evaporating in front of my eyes every day I avoid engaging with my real self and you my Lord, my one true hope, steadfast shield and love. My truth, my compass, my sail and my arrowhead.
Theres almost none of me left
And why and who did I give it up for?
People who emotionally abused me
and people who have never known me and will never care to know me.
And yet I choose worrying about them over the grand scheme and scape of infinite potential under your wings God.
As someone reinforces to me that all of me is wrong, the haunting thought keeps me up more nights than I care to admit to any living soul. Honestly.
Was it all worth it?
Now my mum is disappearing, she expresses the importance and joy music brings,
and all I can muster is shallow breath thinking of all the times I was beaten down for my music expression and guilted for not helping torture those poor animals on that horrible farm or clean up their house mess, physical and emotional.
I am exhausted from a life taking care of others emotional pain while believing mine are so wrong or should not be there. I use every droplet of myself until I am wrung out dry and why?
Fuck you Rob and Gill and your completely unexamined life that led to so much pain living behind my eyes.
I hate farms and maybe I now hate God’s beautiful animals, I can’t go near them without bursting into sneezes that suffocate down the turmoil of emotions from a lifetime of seeing them being used.
Every conversation at dinner was about the sheep and cows and I yearned for anyone to say one gentle artistic word.
If I mentioned the word soul I would be laughed at, and rather than see that as wrong or sad I feel and believe wholeheartedly that I am wrong and sad.
I remember having a break down about the meaning of life and whether we had a soul over a roast chicken dinner
I learnt my artistic nature was wrong, self absorbed and fucked, now I truly am fucked.
I want to retreat to you my dear, true and perfect piano, but your keys bring up and echo sadness I dare allow.
I must allow it and let your harmonies fully absorb my grief until the beauty rings out my sadness as the sound waves vibrate the pain away into the unknown. So that every space in my heart is only left with sound waves of God, sound waves of music and ripples of truth.
My soul is starving for truthful, honest expression that cares not what others think. Like me, hate me it will be the truth and it will be artful and alive, wings splayed, no longer curled up.
Written November 2020