Gray Heavy Things

I remember when words used to fall from my fingers like sparking jewels.
Or so it seemed at least.
Now they seem like great clunks of broken chunks of cement.
Thud, thud, thud.

I am the giant woman of heavy clumsy words, dropping them as I walk. They fall on the path and clutter the way of anyone coming behind me.

This is what it feels like today.

I wish I had the courage to go to Dog Island by myself, the way I used to, before all the bad things that happened to me there happened. Back when the wind whistling through the dunes and pines sang me to sleep and the sound of the waves lapping lulled me into peace and I could play with the words and walk for hours on the beach, in the woods, alone and find such perfection in that aloneness. Just me and the birds and the water and the light and the little cozy house that held me and amused me with its poltergeist, its lumpy couch, its fine-enough kitchen where I would slap out dough on the flour-covered counter just for fun, just for me, the sulfur-stinking shower, the pile of books beside my bed a promise of hours of pleasure.

I wish a lot of things.

Clunk, clunk, clunk.