~270~

                                    

                                          
I hadn't realised how much denser I'd gotten since the last time I wrote anything even remotely of substance
it's been so long
I hate how long it's been
these quiet periods
I get them sometimes
I get in them
and I never remember how I get out
there's always a moment when I take a look around
and suddenly
I'm just
out
it might take a while though
it does take a while usually
but I am a person of words
they need to go somewhere
people like me do not have a while to wait for a place to put them
to wait for the right time for them to come out
they need to be out
right now
I do not know any other way of living
my words and their place within my books
my journals
is one thing
but lately
there's been no words
no leakages of soul
no flooding
there's been not one urge to throw away whatever I'm doing and spend an hour putting down something that will rip my heart out in a day or two
and I don't know what makes me more miserable
this
or the reason behind it
it is something that cannot be taken from me
these are the words I used a week ago when
in-between uncried tears over the parting of my two favourite people
I tried to describe my love for something that I haven't been able to do but know nevertheless I was sent here to do
I was born with it
I said
I was born for it
my love for words was there before I was named
it is a lot like grief
when the words leave me
it's funerals
it's corpses
it's blood sometimes
it's memorials
other times it's murder
when I'm sitting in front of an empty sheet after months since the last time I was proud of what I'd written
it's murder
of what
I do not know
of soul?
of spirit?
of me
I feel dead when I can't write
and you can always tell too
going over the old paragraphs
I know which ones came like flood in spring and which I had to pluck out with tweezers from between the stitches on my heart
we are not going to talk about the stitches
because if I could
these lines wouldn't exist
perhaps the stitches would not exist
if there was even an ounce in me of the kind of writer who was capable of putting her pain into words
year after year
I promise I'll learn
one day
some day
ten years from now
twenty
I might not be around for so long
I might not you know
and I'm not saying there's a plan
I'm saying I won't always be able to fight
I won't always be strong
I won't always have something to bring me back
this life
it has been worthy to stay alive for
but it has drained me dry of life
it has numbed me to the point where I can stand on the threshold of hell and not feel the heat. I can pick my dead hair off the floor one by one while on the phone with postal services
I am a woman