The poetry will not come to me
Like a book too big to open
Its mysteries remain
intact
Brushing up against my heart
And then fading
Leaving a few patches of coloured dye
Fluttering wings
Limp
My head falls to the ground once more
Tired of churning
spinning whirring
Hurting.
The poetry will not come to me
Hidden in these waters and caves
it shivers knowing how it could
Change things
Bounce around in someone's head
(or heart, more likely)
And touch them deeper than ever before.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
yuck
Today I feel ugly and sad and useless and small. I'm sick of not being able to communicate with people and I'm sick of living with so many people I barely know.
Teaching English is hard. And it's not what I came here to do. I'm frustrated with the way this program is run, with the political system of Peru, with the language barriers, with myself for being so pessimistic. I'm frustrated that I get harsh words for doing things with the boys without 'authorization' but that when I ask for authorization, my request is forgotten. I'm frustrated that I have so little time left here, and my time feels so unprofound, so insignificant. I wanted to come home with so many wonderful stories, and yet my trip seems so normal, so run of the mill, so boring. This is life I suppose.
I feel small and insignificant. At times unwanted. What am I doing here? What does this even mean and what does it matter? I feel all that has happened is that my heart here has been terribly tainted.
Of course I know that today is just a sad day...a day full of missing, missing Celia, Colleen, Marie and Justin. Missing hugs that are given to me, not that I give, where I can hold on and feel safe. Missing family and stability and safety and the absence of tension. Missing a strong control of my diet.
Whatever, I'm tired and emotional and trying so very hard not to think about leaving this place because that, too, makes me desperately want to cry.
This probably should have been a journal entry, but it ended up here.
Teaching English is hard. And it's not what I came here to do. I'm frustrated with the way this program is run, with the political system of Peru, with the language barriers, with myself for being so pessimistic. I'm frustrated that I get harsh words for doing things with the boys without 'authorization' but that when I ask for authorization, my request is forgotten. I'm frustrated that I have so little time left here, and my time feels so unprofound, so insignificant. I wanted to come home with so many wonderful stories, and yet my trip seems so normal, so run of the mill, so boring. This is life I suppose.
I feel small and insignificant. At times unwanted. What am I doing here? What does this even mean and what does it matter? I feel all that has happened is that my heart here has been terribly tainted.
Of course I know that today is just a sad day...a day full of missing, missing Celia, Colleen, Marie and Justin. Missing hugs that are given to me, not that I give, where I can hold on and feel safe. Missing family and stability and safety and the absence of tension. Missing a strong control of my diet.
Whatever, I'm tired and emotional and trying so very hard not to think about leaving this place because that, too, makes me desperately want to cry.
This probably should have been a journal entry, but it ended up here.
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