The Break

It’s time to put away my journal.
Put away a way of making sense.
To freefall through the nonsensical
days without my journal, my life raft,
means more time for pure reflection
without the perfection of my journal.

It’s a holy place, here on this stage
of advancing. Well—it’s also a time
of burning motherhood, cold sex.
So I’ll feel it; I’ll feel all there is
without constant recording,
constant analysis.

Imagine a time when no more
writing leads to no more thinking.
Could it be a fruitful endeavor? No
matter the consequence—
to write no more, to think no more.
No more coherence in these days

of information smoldering.
So I will give it a break,
and break away, if it’s possible
to call it quits.
Maybe,
maybe not.

Dopamine hits trump the silence.
Each time apologies abound
as I come back to a complex web:
an entangled and consuming day,
after day, after day—but not one time
is ever enough to stop it.

So I beg myself to stop.
At least without my journal.
No more dragging it
out of the sticky trap. It belongs
in a higher place. Out of reach
until I walk away from dark space.

Published in Matter III, Award Winning Poetry, Oprelle, 2023.