Stuck

These times are like chatter echoing off of clattering silverware and half-empty glasses. I sit in the middle of the room, bewildered and lulled into a resigned state of uncomprehending passivity. I stare at the person in front of me and try to decipher what they are saying. I am only catching words here and there. I am stuck in this awkwardness.

I am my own babbling dining room, dimly lit and crowded. I am lost among noise.

I am a mix of metaphors in this moment. They slosh around all jumbled. That is also a metaphor.

I am limited to expressing myself via my right index finger. But what happens when that is part of the sloshing?

I am fishing for words off a swaying deck in a storm. I am diving at night and I have dropped my light. I am flying through the air trying to catch a fluttering scrap that has the secret to my liberation scribbled on it.

The words are in me, but to retrieve them like juicy freshly killed ducks from the bramble and creekbeds, gently so as not to damage them, is beyond me today. I whine and wiggle in despair.