Almost every time, at first, I fight against the rush of new thoughts, and look into my archives. Doing so makes me confront something I fight against on a daily basis – reading anything I’ve written in the past. I don’t know why I also fight against the rise of new words, bubbling hot and scorching to the touch. What if they burn me? What if I burn them? Or what if I can’t get them started at all, furiously rubbing sticks together and slipping my fingers down an empty lighter? What if I can’t spark this fire? What if I can’t get it started? To watch it catch light and spread.
It’s a bit of a punk thing to do – to find old writing to copy and paste or republish as new, but hear me out. There are many old thoughts in there, and most would and do make me cringe, but occasionally there’s something I need to return to, to remind myself of something within myself. Or to show you what I can do and have done. Every week I mostly fight for personal writing, and I haven’t gone even seven days without experiencing the rush of new thoughts, and the rise of new words – bubbling hot and scorching to the touch. And so, what if they burn?
These titles and words and lyrics – they morph and weave and transform – up until the last dying second. The stroke of midnight on a Friday. I literally take everything I have and every last thought from every last moment of the week, and I gather it up, dump it out, sift through it, trade it out, keep all the best bits, junk the rest, and see how it all mixes together. WILL it mix together? Will it resonate? And I fight, every time, for it to make sense. And then, only then, can I make sense of these quilted-together pieces of just one week of this crazy life. Where love and fear and disappointment and boredom and surprise and malaise all rise and fall together, gathering around my feet and then dancing away, hot and cold, and teasing and enticing.
So today, Finish the Sentence Friday asks, “What do you mostly fight for?”
And what do you mostly fight against?
I mostly fight for and against these words – for the right ones and against the stagnant ones – for they move on their own tide charts, for and against their own moons, and I’m powerless to do anything except to let the slightly spinning sensations, and the moonlight, take their hold.
I mostly fight against overpowering senses and sensations, like low bass in my ear drums, not unlike being unpleasantly underwater, the smell of Asiago cheese baking, too many sight changes from dark to light, to dark to light, and bitter tastes I can’t get out of my mouth.
And I mostly fight for these slightly spinning sensations of a slightly tilting planet, of featherlight touch building in pressure, of rainbow magic everything and dilated pupils against swirls of light and glow, of the climbing, heart wrenching sounds of strings and keys together.
I mostly fight against the aching and the breaking of my heart, so I keep it tilting, like phases of the moon. Here’s a sliver, here’s a crescent, here it waxes and wanes, and sometimes there’s the whole thing. Blue, Blood, Harvest, Wolf, Snow, and Super. Oh, I have a rare moon heart for you.
I mostly fight for what is good and right and just and fulfilling. Conflict and resolution, peace and satisfaction, open hearts and open minds – always reaching for a higher – no limits, no boundaries, no closures, no stops. Full speed ahead, always reaching within you, without you.
I mostly fight against age and aging, having had a fear of it since my 20s, which seems laughable now. And my current age will seem laughable one day too, sooner than I think. I fight against aches and pains and sprains and strains. And I fight against a life with rigid, daily limits.
I mostly fight for living life on my terms, our terms, for as long as humanly possible. Adventures on open road and at home, passport stamps, the years and the mileage, and the laugher.
I mostly fight against proper sleep, or any consistent sleep patterns. When I’m there, sometimes I fight against night demons – like the feeling of something lying on my chest and digging in deeper, getting heavier by the second. Middle of the night stomachaches and rapid heartbeats.
I mostly fight for brighter mornings, with the windows open and the cool breezes seeping in. Waking up one kid in song, and the other by depositing an unnaturally cute cat on her pillow. Days full of promise, and breakfast, and slow, steady breathing with slow, steady heartbeats.
I mostly fight against the disconnect and the silence, the shutdowns and breakdowns and meltdowns, the years going by, and the malaise. The discomfort and the cruelty. The intolerance and the emptiness, the crowds, and the slow suffocation. And the rising panic in dark places.
And I mostly fight for the connections, the music, and the coffee, ice cream, and breakfast dates – stretched out on calendars and etched out on hearts for weeks to come. The comfort, the common sense, the safety, the kindness, and the fairy tale adventures. The belief in magic, the alone time, the one on one time, and the beautiful, refreshing honesty and breathless freedom.
I mostly fight against these little earthquakes, these transitional tremors, these regenerations, these summer vacations and next years up, but they’ll happen anyway. I’ll only fight against them so hard and for so long, until that door comes crumbling down and a new one opens.
I mostly fight for kindness and default joy settings, for lowered, softer voices, octopus bedtime stories, cut up vegetables, and screaming “I LOVE YOU” across crowded parking lots. I mostly fight for seeing you, and you really seeing me, and I’ll never stop listening. I’ll never let go first.
The years go on and
We’re still fighting it
We’re still fighting it
And you’re so much like me
I’m sorry” — Ben Folds
I’m linking up with Finish The Sentence Friday (FTSF) for another challenging prompt. This week’s topic is “I mostly fight for…” And there’s time to write yours. Link up your post HERE.