It’s been too long.
The pen feels foreign in my right hand. Pages of unlined paper sit blank before me. I don’t know if I still know how to do this. I’m not sure if I can keep this going and be any better than how I used to be.
But I’ve got to try.
I lost my voice somewhere last year, but I never lost the words. I had (and still have) too many of them. But instead of letting them go like confetti in the air, I held on to them, the paper crumbling and the colors fading in my hand. I wanted the poetry and the prose to bleed out of me but I found it difficult to write while I was at my most vulnerable. I found myself drowning in words instead.
It’s not easy, pulling yourself up and swimming to the surface. I’m honestly still having a hard time making sense of it. How to construct the sentences that will give life to the words inside my head. Why I can’t string everything together and make it flow effortlessly. Where to find the inspiration to keep putting pen to paper.
I think I’m on the right track though. There is something beautiful about the struggle, the moment where every bit of me is breaking apart into tiny fragments. The way my very being is fighting to survive. Maybe it is the only way to survive – to fall apart into pieces I don’t recognize so I can put myself together in a whole new piece.