Archive for August, 2017

Reaching For Centaurus

Posted in Uncategorized on August 1, 2017 by jezzywolfe


Isn’t that mesmerizing? The Great Rift of the Milky Way. Mysterious, complicated, and frankly, quite terrifying. I could imagine standing on a hilltop, staring into the black of the night sky, at that deep cavern of infinity, and getting sucked into it. Hurtling through space because I stood in the one spot on earth I could fall off of.

But these days, I feel very much cemented to the ground. A good foot deep, even. An overdose of reality can go a long way in extinguishing one’s ability to fly, much less soar. I can’t even compare myself to a caged bird. Cage doors still open. Clipped wings grow back.

I knew at the year’s start that I would face a major change in 2017. I was stubborn with the belief that I’d figure out my new path quickly, and get to it. But it didn’t happen that way. I still don’t know what that path is, or how to find it. Hell, I’m not sure I’m even using the right map.

I’m standing still, staring at the sky.

The thing is, my sky? It doesn’t look like that. On any given night, you’re lucky to see any stars. An artificial fluorescence destroys the cosmic vista. That solitary persistent beacon still manages to scream its presence past the yellow wash of the city, but that aside? Cobalt black. Lightly salted.

If I want to see the dark river, I need to move. I can’t stagnate here. Spinning circles in the same spot will only drive me deeper. Further away from my goals.

For months, I’ve reached for books, and couldn’t lose myself. I’ve sat to write, and stared at a blank screen, until the throbbing behind my eyes won out. Even looking at pictures of the Milky Way failed to spark my imagination. One of the most uplifting images I can fathom…and I’m just lifeless.


People speak often of muses, and I was always reluctant to do so. To me, it was an excuse when the words didn’t come. Blame it on the muse. Even now, in this drought, I still can’t bring myself to blame an inventive device for my malfunction.

This is all on me.

I don’t know if my identity was so tied into my work, I lost myself when I had to figure out who I was without it. I have no goals at the moment. No destination. The pause in my personal growth is so pregnant, its carrying octuplets.

The ideas are still trapped in my head. The laundry list of things I want to do, it’s still there, always nagging me. But I don’t know where to start, anymore. It’s not a writer’s block. It’s more like a death row sentence.

I need a jump. A recharge. Perhaps a launch off a rocketship. Maybe, then, I can remember her. It’s been too long since I’ve felt like me.

I’m really starting to miss her.

If you happen to find her, can you please send her home?