Too Much, Not Enough

'The world is too much with us…'

I am suffering from a failure of imagination. A lack of words. An inability to see the prettiness surrounding me. I don’t want to see it, I'm starting to doubt that it’s there. I know the world well enough. Right now, the world is too ugly for me.

I haven’t written a word in a week. I’ve happily forgotten how to shape a sentence. I’ve lost the melody of language. I've sung along to it far too many times. It is sickeningly familiar, a radio jingle. It's almost like bliss, to be without words. No words, and you have no idea how you really feel.

'For this, for everything, we are out of tune…'

Oh, you don’t need to know why. Just things, I’ll say. It’s just stuff, nothing really. Bad dreams, long days and too-short nights, the heat, bad TV, work, petty jealousies, mediocrity and the future all black, all black around me…It’s just stuff, nothing really. I haven’t suffered much, not recently. Maybe that’s the problem. Maybe I need to suffer. Maybe I need a new tragedy.

Never say that. The gods may be imaginary, but their love of irony is very real.

'And if the butterfly were to be asked, it might only point out that a world is far too easy a thing to break.'

Every time I write, it’s the same words. It’s the same sentence, every time. I can repeat myself endlessly. I echo echoes down empty hallways. I can’t write about butterflies, they are too pretty. I won’t try. I wouldn’t risk it. I will not crumble to dust their wings.

'I am what I am, and a world of pavement and success, of invented misery and magnificence, is what we are.'

Oh, I am something, something else indeed. I invent misery and I am looking for magnificence. But mostly I am nothing. Mostly I wander lonely as a cloud, although never so lovely. I like to go for walks in the evening, when the sun is setting and the world is quiet. That moment when a hush falls over everything; like the first snowfall, when the sky holds its breath and slowly exhales. I try to see the prettiness of it all, when it’s quiet. I try to see the butterflies. I don’t want to hold them in my hands, but I would like to see them.

'Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers…'

It’s not a big deal, I’ll say. It’s nothing, I’m just tired. It’s not like I’ve lost anything, not really. I’m just wandering the world with my eyes closed, knocking over buildings, kicking stones, snapping trees in half. I’ve lost the words, and my eyes are closed, and I destroy the world with my heavy hands. Oh, it’s okay, I’ll say. It’s just a phase I’m going through. I’m not worried. The world is still pretty, I hope. I hope that when I’m ready I will see it again. I hope that when I’m ready the words will find me.

'And dances with the daffodils…'

Unfinished.

Wordless.

Forgotten.

Forget you ever read this.

Please.

I’m scared.

The world is too much, indeed. Fuck you, Wordsworth. I prefer Coleridge any day.

You never felt this way.

Save me.