I write because there’s something I’ve forgotten; something that I’ve been missing; something that eats away at me from within. It possesses an insatiable hunger, and I am but a midnight snack that simply whets its appetite. Whether it belongs to me, is of my own creation, or is simply a visitor making themselves at home during the harsh reality of a 2 year winter is hard to say - though there’s not much of me left to decide which it is. It matters little whether or not such a distinction is meaningful or an excuse. The end result is the same: a hole residing where something used to be. What lives there cannot be felt, heard, or seen. It is the kind of thing that I must believe has found purchase in the hearts of many, though it is skilled at making its emptiness feel uniquely personal. For something to make you feel as though you’re a layer of flesh resting upon another residing within is a cruel joke of the mind.
I write because there’s someone I’ve forgotten; someone dear to me; someone who it would not be hyperbolic to say I could not do without. They are someone I’ve known my entire life, and have gone through extraordinary change. Years passed where they were unrecognizable, and oftentimes it felt as though we did not see each other at all. In growing older and “wiser”, I believed we had come to terms with each other. We became one, and the void within had been filled by me. Happily Ever After had arrived for me and myself. Unfortunately, there are no Happily Ever Afters to be found outside the realm of fiction. People change, and the worst is when the one that’s changed is you. To know that the war fought against myself to figure out how to be at peace was lost to the simple passage of time is disheartening. Whether the void changed shapes or I did is impossible to say. Again, perhaps it doesn’t matter. Or perhaps they are one in the same.
I write because I’ve not written. Not really. I’ve conjured up stories, people, worlds, drama, love, loss, mystery, fantasy, and everything in between. But I have not written. Writing is quite unlike riding a bicycle. It is not the kind of thing one can simply do after not having done for years. Yet it is at the same time as simple as putting pen to paper or fingertip to keyboard. It’s the kind of thing that becomes uncomfortable to do after having left it alone for so long. One forgets simple rules of grammar; forgets the process of stringing together ideas and words into sentences that entices others; forgets that a piece of writing is meant to be read and should have a coherent thread to follow; forgets how to actually use semicolons. As with all things I’ve forgotten, this love of mine feels as though it has been forgotten too. Through neglect I’ve lost a skill, and it’s a muscle of mine that I think would be prudent to exercise. After all, this certainly has not been a good story. It’s hardly been a story at all.
I write because writing is a difficult thing to do. And maybe - no matter how unlikely it may seem - if I can do this difficult thing, there are other difficult things I can do too. There is a certain comfort in that kind of thought. One that is pleasant to hold onto. I admit freely that this is a jumbled mess with little focus. This piece of writing dangles from a thin line overlooking a bottomless pit of an incoherent stream of consciousness. In this way, however, it is honest. I cannot draw. I cannot make music. I cannot dance. I cannot find an outlet for emotion that is not within the realm of words and stories. This is problematic as it often feels to be a fairly uncommon outlet for others to receive emotion. If nothing else, I hope that amidst the jumbled mess of words that emotion is conveyed. Perhaps it’s easier to find meaning in the jumbled mess of colors in a chaotic painting, but this is the only way I know how to do it. I just need to relearn how to be a bit more subtle.
I write because it brings me comfort. And right now? Comfort is what I need.
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