I Can't Sing.

Some people jog. Some people eat or pour their hearts out in music. When I can't resolve something I take to writing. I look to see if by the act of putting all my thoughts on paper some logical thread reveals itself. That usually works pretty well. Then, depending on my state of mind, I either follow the thread to some better conclusion or I pull on it and everything unravels. The 80s were a very thread-pulling time for me.

Now and more, I work hard to be a thread follower rather than a puller, with varying degrees of success.

However, most recently I've become caught in a conundrum, not by my own design or inclination, for which no thread to salve appears. No matter how often I write I cannot place words in the order needed for the peace to reveal. I'm so disturbed by this I find myself distracting from the original problem to dwell on the failure of my process. It's been such a good and faithful process. Why isn't it working?

(I find my futility worsened by being in a houseful of teenagers who wander from morose and despairing to giddy and delirious, often within thirty minutes, and many times over the same issue. Clearly my process will not work for them either, unless the tweet can be considered a thesis in the modern age. I digress.)

This blur simply will not do, and the curried feelings all around by those injured on their own and by my hand, my failure, only serve to burn more and more.

I find I rather hate having to care and I wonder if I could ice that interest in how others feel so I wouldn't have to hurt for their hurt. Then I circle back to the feeling that if I were a better person I could find the kinder truth for everyone. As it turns out, I may not be the better person.

In any case I have been disappointed many times and still I return, I embrace. If another can't should I chase? Or find peace where I stand? I think the latter.

So there it is. I think my system works after all.

Thank goodness. I'm not much of a singer-songwriter.