sometimes I read my old writing and I think, god, she really let the cringe jump out there, and other times I think with definitive certainty, I will never be able to write words so beautiful ever again. words will never leave me like that again.
it’s been so long since I’ve written.
I think the words bled out slowly, left my mouth high and dry with an aftertaste of bitterness (I chew gum to keep it out).
I’ve fallen out of my habitual writing, have been out of practice for years now. I think the words bled out slowly, left my mouth high and dry with an aftertaste of bitterness (I chew gum to keep it out). I read somewhere that writing is kind of like a rusty faucet. it will not work at first, when you haven’t turned the knob in years, and anything that comes out will, at best, be completely unpalatable until slowly but surely the water begins to run clear.
I find myself agreeing with this except it isn’t my fingers that forget how to write; it’s my brain that’s forgotten how to send the words to my hands. a brain-to-mouth filter so severe it’s blocked the words completely, overflowing and spilling from the crevice. the ugliest, meanest words make it past and rest heavy on my tongue. kind words and poetry rot in my brain, as if I have consciously deemed the world a dangerous place for honesty--the words within me no longer deem people or places safe.
I think part of the reason I stopped writing – part of the reason we stop doing anything we love – is because our work becomes performative. I was always content with my writing being mine, for me, not as a diary, but as pieces I could call uniquely my own, my emotions taking hapless and creative forms, be it poetry or something else. but the words slowly stopped. we convince ourselves that if our craft could not be used to connect to others, if it wasn’t seen, if it didn’t make the world a better or happier or inspired place, then it held no weight. how hard are we on ourselves, to feel that happiness is something we have to perform?
you have weight. you deserve your words. your passion has a safe space with you.
my words make me happy. my words give me comfort, my words cry with me and smile with me and fall with me and rise with me. my words dream with me. my words make my world a better place. your craft makes your world a better place. you have weight. you deserve your words. your passion has a safe space with you.
I am trying to write again. half the time I don’t know what comes out of me, or why, but I need to let the words out. I deserve their truth, and they deserve my love. these days my love looks a little like this:
late night mind of me (a poem)
It has been a while
since I’ve called out the late-night mind
of me.
She seems to be
doing good.
Better than I,
and calmer.
Her pleasures, wins, and losses are not
quantified or commercialized.
They are simply for
her own.
There is no guilt
in her self-importance,
because she is all she needs.
She is enough for herself.
your craft, your passion, your little slice of happiness – they are waiting for you. wherever you’ve buried them, underneath the bed, in the back of your closet, in that forgotten notebook or canvas. they are waiting there patiently for you. you deserve their truth, and they deserve your love.
