There’s this weird moment before the fire. It’s this second where you have to act indifferent. Disinterested. As if you have to pretend you weren’t starting at their lips for the last hour wondering how they feel parted against your chest. You have to act like there is no desire. You just happen to be getting closer and closer until all bets are off and the heat is unleashed and you both claw at each other bearing into each other as if morphing into one being. Why must we pretend and put up that wall before leaving all defenses behind? Is it simply part of the game or is it a second before no turning back? Maybe it’s a moment for them to prove they want you before you’re left rejected and alone. I’m not sure. All I know is the moment you both give in is the greatest bliss I’ve ever known.

writing about nothing

I feel I have abandoned writing. Writing has always been my art, my outlet, my love. Somewhere along the line, I lost her. Not only did I lose her -- she became a dark, nagging mistress always lurking on the outskirts of my mind. She knows I have abandoned her to rot in the cold but I feel I have no shelter or fuel to appease her. She holds my secrets and threatens to slice all the stitches that hold me together still. 

Worst of all, she visits me in the night when my mind is vulnerable to its own doing. She unleashes my darkest confessions, imaginations and quite possibly the most dangerous, my memories. She threatens the loyalty I hold closer to anything -- my heart. One upon a time I convinced myself I did not have a heart. I ate my feelings, gulped them down whole as to not release what flavor concealed in their skin. I did not nurture her and literally fed her to the wolves. After I escaped the things that hurt me the most, I devoted my being to putting her back together. This poor, nearly dead creature that lives inside me. She might even be me but I don’t think we are there yet, though.

But here lies writing. She holds everything and I am and all the things I am that I don’t care to know. She begs to be free, to roam and release all of those things we locked away but my heart refuses to let writing be who she is. Every time I place a hand to paper nothing manifests but empty words trying to be something beautiful. They’re nothing more than a guise to appease this restless thing inside my mind. 

So, here I am. 

Writing about writing. 

I don’t know what to say. I have no story to share. No colorful scenes dancing before my fingertips ready to share with the rest of the world. I don’t know who to write for. Who would read this yearning for the next sentence anyway? Who would I even let read it once its left my mind into a physical presence?

Mom said I was born to do this. My teachers promised I would be great. I think my boyfriend fell in love with me because I told him I could create beautiful words into masterful thoughts. Did I lie? Have I let them down? Can I even say I am a writer anymore?

I don’t even know who I am anymore. I don’t know what this new voice sounds like. I don’t know what it has to share. 

I guess the only place to start is simply to exist and see what unfolds.

Welcome to the journey.