Hover

My fingers hover over the keyboard keys as I rack my brains for a train of thought that has not run for months. All that's been left in my head is red mist and buzzing noises that stop me from sleeping. I can barely see where I'm headed in my own head. I look for songs that might help me feel anything profound, anything new, anything familiar, ANYTHING except this red mist and this incessant buzz ruining my mood and my brain, and my trains. 
My fingers hover over the keyboard again, and again. This happens for days, months, even, and I still can't write a single lucid thought to get anything started. I fumble and stumble with "the"s and "a"s and "Once upon a time"s to the point where seeing a blank page on the computer makes me want to bawl my eyes out in mourning like I've lost the greatest love of my life, because I have. 

I lived for writing about heartbreaks and dark places in my mind. I became so used to loneliness that it became my salvation. I became so accustomed to being under the haze of depression and anger that it feels strange to not be surrounded by it anymore. I let fear permeate every single nook and cranny of my psyche that courage now seems more like a stranger than an old friend.
The words escape me. I want to write about everything, the way I feel, the sunshine this time, not the rain. I want to write about love and loving myself, and loving someone else, and someone loving me. I want to write about happiness and finally seeing the light at the end of this horrid tunnel that I've been traversing. But I don't know how. I don't have the words for this.
I never made a train of thought for happiness, it always seemed like a feeble dream conjured up by a supercalifragilistic mind. It makes my skin crawl, thinking of happiness, even if I already am surrounded by it. I programmed and reprogrammed my mind to never hang on to it. Happiness was always a harbinger of bad things. I think I'm just scared, still scared, that if I write anything specific down, if I hang on to things too much, that the world will come swooping in again to take it all away like the eternal villain it is.
I finally have roses in my garden and here I am afraid that they'll die.
But I'm not making any more sense. The red haze is there, holding me back or egging me on, I do not know anymore. I'm going around in circles in my own head and I can't even string a proper paragraph together without being vague.
My fingers hover over the keyboard again. I close the program window, get the strikingly white sheet out of my face, shut down the computer and turn on the TV. The buzzing doesn't die down.

Touch Stone

I think of you every now and then, when I'm reminded of you.

Sometimes when it rains I remember sharing an umbrella with you,

Running to the college from wherever it is we sat talking,

Almost late to class because we lost track of the time.

Sometimes someone says something that is so quintessentially you,

And I have to hold in my smile.

I think about you when I read my books,

Maybe that's why I don't read so much anymore.

I think about you when I write in my diary,

Because I have two diaries filled with your name.

That's why I don't write as much anymore.

I'm happy now, though.

I don't know if you'd believe me,

I don't know if you ever believed in happiness.

I never believed in it when I was around you,

All I felt was the need to impress you, to be your friend,

To be SOMEONE to you. I failed though.

But I still think about you sometimes.

I wonder if you see me online, see my photos,

What do you think, how do you feel;

And then I'll realize, all of a sudden,

You don't really care, you never did.

That's the sad part though.

I made you a touch stone in my life once,

A marker, a monument.

And I was nothing but a bystander to you,

Inconsequential, forgettable.

I was barely a word in your story,

And you were an entire book in mine.

My Life, Part 9: He never loved me back.

That was you.

It will always be you, my first love, my first heartbreak,

My white pickett fence.