My mother always told me, "If you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all." Luckily, I rarely take her advice, or I would be a very quiet person indeed. But every time I've sat down to write in the past several weeks, this is the phrase that runs through my head. The two miniature Rachel's perched upon my shoulders argue back and forth and change their perspectives so often that I don't even recognize which is my angel and which my devil anymore. One says "Write," while the other sneers, "You have nothing worth saying."
I feel myself standing at the precipice, vulnerable, wavering. Everything around me whispers that this is the moment. I must choose to either move on or wallow and stagnate. The pull of my bed and the covers that I could stretch over my head and disappear into is more than magnetic.
If I am to go on, I need to construct a new life, new routines, new deviations from the routines. I'm still standing with one foot in the past, rooted in a quicksand of memories and old dreams. If I'm to step onto firmer ground, it's very likely that only my foot will make it. Here is what will happen: with a great sucking noise, the mud will refuse to release my shoe and I must leave it behind. But I'm attached to that shoe. What happens if I move on without it? Does it sink and disappear? And what happens to my naked foot without that shoe?
Rachel, why the hell are you talking about shoes and black sucking muck? This makes no sense. And are you on a precipice or struggling in a quagmire? Cause it can't be both. For the love of god, woman, choose a metaphor and stick with it! What is your problem?
This is the problem.
The more I struggle, the deeper I sink.