I’ve been quiet because another part of my life has now been tainted with that dark black smoke of grief that slithers in when you least expect it and leaves you breathless, coughing, and the dust of it settles over everything for so long it just seems to become part of daily life.
My next blog was going to be about Stitch – how we had expected to get a dog but got a monster, how he had opened doors for me here that I would never have walked through if it wasn’t for his ridiculous personality making me say audible hello’s to everyone he ever came in contact with. But life plain sucks sometimes and he left us before he turned three.
So I stopped writing, and I stopped a lot of things and I sat and waited to feel like I should write again – but I don’t really. But I am – because that’s what everyone tells me to do. And when I think that no one wants to read my words I go out and seek someone else’s to calm myself down, and I realize that sometimes all I need to read is someone else’s words on how they’re getting through this crazy world day by day and maybe I feel just a bit better. I keep telling myself that inspiration will happen, that life just needs one more month and then I’ll get into a rhythm, a schedule, something known, planned. I haven’t had a planned life in years.
And I know that if I write a million words may be only a few of them will really hit me, hit you, like I want them to – but if those thousand don’t get written, well then those words and emotions are locked tight somewhere empty where echoes make things way too confusing and help no one.
I’m not allowing myself to delete any more. I will write crazy and happy and sad and hopefully every day – even if it’s just a little bit – even if it doesn’t make sense to you – because once I wrote for myself and in those pages are where everything that you loved came from. First, they were my thoughts, and then I shaped them to be yours.
Here, they’re just mine – but for some reason, I have to share – society makes me share if I want it to be anything someday – because who is a singer if she only sings in the shower, and who is a writer if the words only echo in her head?