Finding the broom..
It's in the wee hours of a Sunday night that I finally decide to brush off the cobwebs covering this blog, and fight off the ghost that's made a home in my archives.
The battle was long and gruesome, but in the end victory was mine. Locating the broom however, is proving to be my next challenge.
Please, kindly mind the dust.
I want to say writing again feels like a breath of fresh air, like my shackles were untied and the world makes sense again...
But mostly?
The pen feels weird in my hand and I'm learning that awkward silences exist on paper.
But mostly?
How do we make friends again?
What used to pour from me like a river is now a tentative trickle, and the words are getting lost along the way. It's taken many tries, lots of caffeine and a rescue party of one to ensure their arrival to you, dear reader.
The question that led me here, sweet-talking a webpage: Was I a writer because I wrote or did I write because I was a writer?
If the former was true, then my days of writing were over, river or trickle. I couldn't imagine a harsher reality. There were days I thought up poems that got lost on the way to the page
and rescue parties were never successful, yet not once, did I ever stop calling myself a writer.
Not when unwritten poems fell from my eyes, and unspoken haikus echoed in my laughter.
I dunno. Is a pregnant woman any less a mother than a woman with a 6 year old?
I carried writing the same way, it was part of me and I was part of it, long before it materialized on a page
I'll still be a writer even if I never touch the pen again. In every breath and every step, I'm crafting the story of my life.
The battle was long and gruesome, but in the end victory was mine. Locating the broom however, is proving to be my next challenge.
Please, kindly mind the dust.
I want to say writing again feels like a breath of fresh air, like my shackles were untied and the world makes sense again...
But mostly?
The pen feels weird in my hand and I'm learning that awkward silences exist on paper.
But mostly?
How do we make friends again?
What used to pour from me like a river is now a tentative trickle, and the words are getting lost along the way. It's taken many tries, lots of caffeine and a rescue party of one to ensure their arrival to you, dear reader.
The question that led me here, sweet-talking a webpage: Was I a writer because I wrote or did I write because I was a writer?
If the former was true, then my days of writing were over, river or trickle. I couldn't imagine a harsher reality. There were days I thought up poems that got lost on the way to the page
and rescue parties were never successful, yet not once, did I ever stop calling myself a writer.
Not when unwritten poems fell from my eyes, and unspoken haikus echoed in my laughter.
I dunno. Is a pregnant woman any less a mother than a woman with a 6 year old?
I carried writing the same way, it was part of me and I was part of it, long before it materialized on a page
I'll still be a writer even if I never touch the pen again. In every breath and every step, I'm crafting the story of my life.