Fear Is Never Simple

My writing is suffering. This happens when I hide behind metaphor instead of saying what it really is that I want to say. I need to make it simple, but I am afraid.

How do I explain how often I am disappointed in the world, how sure I can be that I will always be at odds with it?

This morning, as I was driving to work, I heard a song that brought back this memory...

The day after September 11th, I had to pull my car over to the side of the road, where I wept for an eternity, all in a mere five minutes, at the heartbreak that was the sound of a voice against a violin.

The sadness I felt quickly turned to anger at every single driver on the road waving an American flag. I could not help but feel like our sudden sense of sisterhood, brotherly love, brought about by tragedy, would be fleeting. I knew people were grieving that day, but I hated them for not having been generous the day before. I was crushed under the knowing that they would go back to their myopic behavior and road rage in the weeks after.

Why do we have to lose 3,000 people before we discover our best selves? Why could I not take the community generosity at face value, instead of contorting it until my expectations where no longer met?

Perhaps, this is an imperfect example. I am floundering with my words.
Every sentence comes out wrong, a small detonation, a cloud of dust.

Instead, I think about my first trip into New York City as a little girl. Awestruck, I vowed I would move to the Village, pen a novel, break some hearts on the way to learning about love. The city, she was infinite.

That was until I saw a homeless man living on the street without shoes. My father had to hold me against his chest, tight, the whole ride home on the railway. He kept repeating over and over, it is going to be okay, while I wept. I was 8 years old and already he had an inkling, fearing that this world was too much for me, knowing with certain heartache that I was so easy to break.

And I do, I break again and again and again.

I'm tired,
wishing I could live in a world with violions instead of shoeless misery on city streets that are suppose to be paved with gold.

I'm tired
of inauthentic language, and hiding behind metaphor.

I'm tired
by all the ways you dissapoint me.

I'm tired
by all the ways I dissapoint myself.