Dear Diary,
It’s hard to discern your knocking from mine when my hands are numb from banging on your windows, begging you to let me in again when the clouds start to obstruct the solid blue sky. I find my mind sneakily stringing vivid words together again as you reluctantly pose as my canvas. Even after I sat you down, harsh words written on your skin, brilliantly worded divorce papers adorned with beautiful penmanship between us. The only way I’d stop writing for good is if I became paralyzed, unable to move my fingers. Not completely out of the question since, ironically, I’m sure I’d throw myself off a cliff if it made for a story to tell, an impression to make on you. Though even then, I suspect I’d have so much to say, lots of metaphors about the wallpaper in the room where I’m bedridden, that I’d find a way.
This should be like making my way through a pile of puzzle pieces, first flipping them over and making sure none overlap, then searching for the corners, followed by the connecting edges, and then introducing each inner piece in a neat, clockwise manner, the picture becoming clearer with the addition of each piece. Or maybe it’s naive to expect it to come together like so, the result being an honest work of art framed and hung on the wall above my bed where I sit and leaf through my collection of great ideas. Instead, I find myself staring at a mountain of pieces from multiple different puzzles, all the same blue color scheme. Sometimes I can’t even stomach the process because certain hues make me nauseous. Sometimes the pieces dodge my fingers, bounce off the table, and fight each other. The pieces either fit by connecting shapes or matching colors; if their edges connect, I must paint their faces to match, and if their blue tones blend well, I must shave them down to fit together.
(Unfinished)