I write about things.
Some words are stone arrowheads, dipped in dripping rancor, shot in rage and left lying among the ruins of a bygone time.
Once shot, an arrow cannot be called back. The woman who has let it fly will eventually find it–at the same moment she discovers she is a tenderfoot. There, embedded in her heel, it has found its home. She stumbles to sit, understanding a terrible lesson. The weapon she used has wounded unintended prey.
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It has been a very long time since I’ve written. But that’s not really true. I write everyday, but the things I write lately are not fit for public consumption. They are all about the private triumphs and disappointments one experiences in their inner life.
I have thought seriously of deleting this entire blog. It feels…not relevant, a chore, frivolous. It feels like something “other” or apart from real life.
Are you like me, you blogger, you? Do you read sitemeter like I do, searching for clues on who’s searching for you. Who’s that faceless person in Baltimore trying, day after day (though you don’t post every day–not even nearly!) for you. All when the ONE you want, that particular someone, ignores you–their longs&lats never showing up on sitemeter–an insult and a rebuke by their daily absence.
Are you like me?
mary june brown 