It's Hard.

       It’s hard.

      It’s really, really, hard. When your mind is saying, yes, yes, let's do it! and your soul is chiming in, this will make you happy; but your body simply replies with the same answer every time, like an old man on the bus who says the same words to the driver every day when he nods goodbye: I’m so very tired.

        I’m sorry, I can’t do it. 

        It hurts too much.

       All I want is to practice the piano, or sew, or take a full-length shower; and if I go ahead and do it anyway, afterward my body is in even more pain— a lot more.

       Then I have to take more medicine,

       and my mind gets even more dizzy, 

       and when my soul says, you can keep moving forward! I want to grab it by its hair and shout and sob and show it the dull, burning flashes of frosty lightning tracing every path my neurons connect to with a silent scream.

       Yet even when tears are streaming down my face and all I need more than air itself is a hug, but I can’t get one because everyone else is asleep— I still hear my soul, quietly flickering away in my shaky heart to keep it warm.

       You will.

   Your will is stronger than fatigue.
   Your hope will overcome depression.
   Your strength will carry your pain.
   Your determination will sharpen your mind.
   Your faith will shape your future, and
   Your soul will keep you warm.

       I hope you have a good day. I'm super sleepy so I'll be watching The Great British Bake-off and drinking plenty of fluids. 

        Love,

          Joelle.

Loo Thoughts

DEAR
      Bathroom Thinkers:
           It is so freaking hard to play the guitar. Everyone lied when they said it was easy. I have been practicing like crazy! In the Christmas spirit, here's a pretty guitar version of O Holy Night. I feel like classical guitar is underrated. It's harder, but it's so beautiful.

           Poemmas now continues! Here is a very strange free-write I did in the women's restroom in university. Everyone else chose places to write that were more outside the box. I thought inside the box for once-- or rather, the cubicle, as it were. And yes, you read me right, the restroom. Washroom. Loo. Bathroom. Toilet. Yup. Enjoy:

Loo Thoughts

       Muttering to oneself, rifling through bags, dropping with a clatter. Voices ricocheting off the walls, keys dangling with a clash-- so many sounds. Chance meetings when the door is touched from both sides at once, running water dancing over all other noise. Whispered phone conversations held in the far corner, foolishly assuming tiled privacy. Chapstick running away, red-yellow-red, chased by only visible fingers, hoping it won’t go too far. Rushing feet in colorful straps shuffling, hurrying, waiting, trapping, snapping at the door.

       Then silence. But the silence isn’t really; air swirls in from high above, circular muttering. Claps and voices seep under the door, from so far away; removed. Sound reigns in this room of squares, the only place where sight is second. Monotony is torn by new arrivals, slowing down as though this is a restful place. Noses rubbed raw sniffle with abandon, feeling free to be loud among the tiles. Sweeping screechily lightly spreads, echoes spiraling through. Rips and rustles, bangs and splashes, sighs as mirrors catch someone in passing.

       Why do we feel different here? Really, we are less exposed in our carpeted halls, where footsteps make much less sound. 

With Clean Hands,

Joélle