when a writer puts down his words
i could blame it on growing up.
the urge to shave stubble and swallow breakfast triumphed over the morning write while dreams were still fresh, while still caught in the sweet streams of sleep.
i could blame it on the pulls and tugs on creativity.
what once was considering an endless waterfall of words is now but a trickle. maybe i sipped too swiftly, too quickly. drinking away words and spending them on youthful flames. did i snip and cut my giving tree too soon? too hastily?
i could blame it on the new outlet.
words are meant to be shared, to be felt, to help a battered mind weather the toughest of storms, and to show what we feel-what we are too afraid to speak let alone allow to see the light of day- is a feeling others have felt and have rose above. and why write words when i can show them, when they can see the tone and the vigor and the beauty of hearing soft syllables. i will admit: every class feels like a new audience, a new show, and i will give them their money’s worth, their education’s worth. my own spoken word stage.
but nevertheless, it’s not any of these. no, no, no.
a writer lives a troubled life, able to captivate the sorrows of solitude and the rush with a connection of eyes—a chance encounter with a stranger and a smile. to see a gaze and a smile does wonders to the mind. if only you could say hello, if only you could say “i was running errands but i forgot them all when i saw you.” oh to let you curiosity blend with creativity and dream about future days! a writer sees the beauty in the sun while drenched in a storm and clouds high above.
a writer sees it all because that writer is detached from it all like pressed against a glass they cant break. close enough to see, close enough to touch, yet still stuck behind that glass. unseen and unheard.
and even though it exist through all letters and behind every meaning, writers are at their best when not in love…
unfortunately for my writing, i am.
and no longer need words.
it’s been ages.
it’s not the same.
it will never leave me, but i dont write about the same things anymore.
if you know me and know my writing, you know that was such a tremendous part of my creativity.
and somehow, it all feels okay to let it slip away.
until next time.