A Writer Trapped



I was mulling this over, playing with palabras. I then saw a friend’s post: “When we are lonely, do we say things that we don’t really mean, or do we speak our deepest truths?” This my confession of the moment

I’m trapped in a maze of words,
Of my own making.
Most people write their own relief,
But I sit behind iron bars, forged of ink.
Composed of all my words, of all the things I think.
Reliving each memory as if it were made whole again,
Brought into the world of the real.
It’s art without the catharsis,
Vocabulary intercourse without the climax.
Why is it that other people seem to know the language of life, when I’ve barely learned the alphabet?
Still learning to use the clunky syllables while others are having fluid conversations.
Expressing their innermost desires, and getting that which they need;
All I get is a syntax error, a misunderstanding.
Most of the time, I bathe in solitude like Bathsheba,
But staring up at the moon I often wonder if love will forever elude me.
Because what’s life without someone to share, without someone to bear the cohabitated mentality of mutual understanding.
These are just some things I think,
When I’m trapped in a maze built of my own words,
And I stand behind iron bars forged of ink,
Composed of my words, and all the things I think.

Glimpses of Spring

Such a sweet sentiment I wish I could experience again

Suddenly Satori

I’ve spent the night sifting through some of my old writings. Peering into our past can tell us so much about ourselves. So much about the things I wrote suggest that they were written by me — from the sensitivity and vulnerability to the reverence for nature that I tried so hard to capture. Yet, I know that the girl who wrote them just doesn’t exist anymore. I can never be her again, even if I wanted to. She was so innocent, so naive. In a way, this piece on springtime has come to encapsulate a spring-like season of my own life. I know that I can never love like that again, and it has nothing to do with being unable to find the right person or anything like that. It’s because I’ve tumbled too far through life. I’ve loved too many. I know too much about humans now. I…

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Suicide and the ‘Sacred’

Even if you aren’t a vet returning from service, there is a powerful idea here that if we serve and live in an other-regarding way, in a way in which we are not the center of our own universe, we can truly deal with feelings of lonliness in a healthy way way before they conquer us.

Finding Purpose

Suicide and the sacred
“Ever more people today have the means to live, but no meaning to live for.” Viktor Frankl

One aspect of suicidal desire comes from the feeling of loneliness and isolation resulting from a lack communal belonging. Here I demonstrate how the concept of ‘the sacred’ helps us understand communal belonging, particularly in relation to the meaning of service. I apply this concept to veterans in transition to civilian life, showing how the loss of meaning and purpose can result from losing a tight-knit community centered on the sacred ideal of service.

In the book Suicide, Durkheim describes the function of the ‘sacred’ as an ideal that binds individuals together into moral communities; he states, “it’s object is to raise man above himself and to make him lead a life superior to that which he would lead, if he followed only his own individual whims.”

Moral communities provide individuals with…

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Why?: A Gimpy Monologues Interlude

The Question Is What Is the Question?
The Question Is What Is the Question? (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

It is the most important question we can ask.
With it we can make inquiries into the past,
We can try to discern the way things are,
And ensure the necessary changes come to pass.
It’s a question so simple, yet profound
It’s difficult to believe that he can be uttered with but a single sound.
It allows us to question and to conceive,
It has allowed us to reach the moon, in a way that before we could not believe.
A question so crucial and yet so harsh…
I find myself wondering.
I find myself pondering.
Why is it that we must strive for equity?
Why is it that it could just be?
Why is it that I have to tear down the world with my two hands?
Just to make it a safe place, a welcoming space,
For generations of people,
Just like me.

Life and death emergency, please help me

Proactive dying is something we all need to talk about. Death is PART of life, and if we don’t treat as such, and deny freedom to be exercised here also, then aren’t we denying an essential right?

Plays Well With Words


I picked up a prescription today. If I had paid cash it would have cost $1,713.73. Thanks to my medicare “advantage” plan I paid $691.18. Thanks to my husband I was able to get this. The copayment would have been more than my monthly social security disability “benefits”.

There are thousands of people in America just like me. I’m not done yet. I have this cause, this movement to fight for, but many of those thousands are done with this life, but their body hasn’t died yet. Quit making your grandma choose between meds that make her sick, or food that she can’t taste, while she begs you to help her.

Let us go!

How dare you sentence us to a life of meager existence to ease your conscience!

No one should spend their life savings as they writhe in pain to wait until something “naturally” kills them. The arguments…

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The Inferno of Oz: A Gimpy Monologue

By Joseph Casarez

Imagine walking through the yellow-brick road; you’re hopping, skipping and don’t have a care in the world for the world or the problems in it.  It’s just you and this feeling of careless joy.  You’re off to see the wizard who will dispel the irritating problems that you have accumulated from past actions; financial debt, conflicts with friends and family, self-deprecation.  This fantasy may last for days or even two hours.  The Emerald City is always in sight, but never reached, you realize there is also a fog chasing you; you are afraid to have it envelop you because it brings you  down to a dull center.  When you grow tired and have no energy to run and skip, you succumb to the fog.

In the fog, people seem frightening and there is no joy and fun.  You feel sapped of vitality, unable to pick yourself up.  It’s difficult to understand because it all of a sudden; it attaches itself to you like a parasite sucking your life force.  The yellow-brick road crumbles into the river of Styx, trudging through the mud.  What people say becomes suspicious and filled with malicious intent.  You’re not thinking clearly and rationality sounds foreign to your brain; the fog seduces you into slumber for what feels like a century or two.

This is what it feels like in my mind.  Between Oz and Hell, lies a fragile Purgatory where there is a rigid structure of stability; but like all rigid structures it falls eventually and the winds of Oz swoop down to carry me into the wondrous castle of forgetfulness while the mists of Hell desires to wrap its tendrils around my being.  Where did the normal me go?