Wet Weather

It has been raining for the last few days, inside. I've been struggling with how I view myself as a poet. How others view my work, and why I choose not to publish anything I've written in the last two years, less a rare poem here and there. I am unhappy, really quite sad in fact, about my work, particularly concerning my lack of want to even approach the pen. I seek perfection, which is impossible. And so I remain unimpressed with my own writing.

And there is more. For one, I have not had time to focus on my writing. Taking on another Major has restricted time to even relax and enjoy the small moments. My intensive language class is coming to an end, as is my intensive 10 therapy sessions, as is my 10 hour per week research job. All done the second week of July. The first two weeks of August I am finally going home, to New Brunswick, to kiss my ocean. To try to locate my missing, supposedly dying, mother. Perhaps I will even find time to heal. When I return, there will be time for 14 days of putting myself back together before another intense year of school begins.

And I can't stop crying. I'm tearing up at everything, finding it so sad that I have such little time, and what I've been leaning toward lately--talent--for writing. And I so desperately want/need/desire to put together what I know is forming a crescendo in my mind, in my sleep, during my walks and dreams.

So I pulled some books from the shelf the other day. I've been randomly poking into them when I have a free moment, hoping they'll jog me into picking up that pen, waiting, beside my bed, on my desk, in the kitchen. I've been working so hard this year. I need a break.

In other news, I bought some fabulous shoes to cheer myself. And there's a tango festival hitting Montreal in July. Been taking lessons. Fantastic dance.