So. Here I am.
Facing my computer, my hands on the keyboard, trying to figure out what to say, and what to write, and how to write it. It used to be so easy. Words flowing out of me, pouring under my fingers, in a chaotic yet sublime whirlwind. A magnificent maelstrom of feelings, swirling and frothing deep within me. And it was so glorious.
It was a drug, an addiction, but more than that, it was a need. A most basic, instinctual need. As critical as breathing. As vital as the beating of my heart. I had to write. I simply had to. Because an absurd part of me was afraid that I would die if I didn’t. But it never felt absurd, or wrong. It felt safe, and wondrous, but most importantly, it felt right. So I would write. Anything, and everything. So long as I could write, everything or anything, I was fine. And I was safe. And the world would be okay.
Lately, that absurd part of me has been afraid that I would die if I did write. If I let the monsters out. If I empowered my demons by making them real. If I failed. And what used to be so innate is now an impregnable castle in the distance, unyielding and resolute, unwavering and asunder, taunting me, mocking me.
Words now escape me, in a wicked and cruel dance, that I am not swift enough, or balletic enough, to follow. And no matter how much I chase after them, they remain an unfathomable chimera. Whatever words I do manage to write are forced, jolted down in an abhorrent struggle, violated and defiled ; and they are turned sour, made into screeches and shrieks, their melodiousness faded and gone.
So here I am, composing a threnopy, mourning and honouring a long lost relationship with words. But more than that, I am trying to rekindle with words. Breathe new life in the bond I used to share with words, spark a new fire. And no matter how long and arduous it gets, I will move on. Move forward. And most importantly, I will write.