When did I write last? Why? Where have I been.
The page seems so blank, like never before. Someone told me to write again. I thought, why not.
Blank scares me these days, more than ever. I’m unused to writing, there, in public, for all to see. How did I used to pour out my heart like that? Why?
I’d like to get back to writing, the way I used to 7 years ago. Stories. Poems. Even if they sucked. Can I do it? Do I have it in me? I start, and it’s like … the page is SO white. But they say first you write a sentence, then a paragraph, then a page, then two and three, and suddenly … there you have it.
I’m shy. I feel stage fright. But there is no stage. Just me. And you. And what we say is lost among billions of words that unfold and multiply in the vast space of the Internet every millisecond.
Alas, you are not a writer until you believe you can’t write. So maybe I am a writer. Or just a girl on a couch, her lap draped in roses, holding onto old sentiments.
This boy is special. He’s young and cute, and he teaches me things I thought he didn’t know. I’m not sure which I’m afraid of more, love or writing. Which I believe I can’t do more. Which is my greatest failure in life. Failure is a strong word to use at 27, when you’re so young, still coming into being, still coming to grips with your world, yourself and your surroundings.
That’s what they both do — love and writing — teach you to reveal yourself, little by little, and linger there, hover in uncertainty until you do it with grace. Eventually. First you do flail. You doubt, you lose your balance. You trip. Then you start over. And every time you start again, the task seems harder because you have the heaviness of knowledge with you.
Children must be masters at love, then, masterful writers. Because we go through writing and erasing and rewriting over the traces, recalling fragments of what we used to be. Children forget. They go, and they play, and they laugh and take in new experiences with no second thoughts. Without judgment. They just are.
The goal of choosing to put yourself through writing and rewriting, loving and mending and loving again, then, is to learn how to untwine the tethers of experience and remember how to be.
Could I just be? That’s why I want to find my voice again. To just be. And why I’ll never give up love.