I don’t know what I want to write, only that I must. The words must pour forth, like paint onto a canvas, for this is my way of painting. The creative fire at my fingertips is crying to be allowed to burn, but it has no fuel. I’ve starved it for too long, the flames sputtering into dim coals. And now I am cold, alone, with no one to blame but myself for this lack of vitality within my soul.
I don’t know what to write. No stories swirl around in my head – not even mine.
Everything has changed. The past eight years seem like a nightmare that I couldn’t wake up from… and once I did wake up I realized it’d been real. I’m left with a completely blank slate. I need to find remnants of who I used to be, to clothe the nakedness of my soul in. I need to figure out what I want the rest of “me” to look like. Run towards it with every straining step I can muster.
I need my dreadlocks back. That’s an easy one. Being skinny again is another easy thing to think of. Loving Hanson and chocolate were never in question. Poi, spinning poi is good. Maybe I could start riding again?
Do I want a tattoo? How do I want to dress?
Who am I? Did I ever really know who I was? The lumps, bruises, and scars from a physically abusive relationship heal way quicker than the scattered mess left behind after emotional abuse. I still sometimes feel like I must’ve been the one in the wrong, that there was something in me that brought out his darkness, or caused it. That without me it never would’ve been there/surfaced.
I must write. I must be a writer again. This is also an easy one, though the creative fires must be stoked before it will become something simple.
Are you ready to find the spark inside and let it burn? I am.