My urge to write is deep and nagging. I long to divulge like the books I bury myself in, hoping to drip in similar soliloquy and metaphor. I just don’t possess such abilities, be it I lack the imagination, right words or the experience, and thus the words I sting together sound hallow. Like those of a school girl bitterly writing her pained experiences of the heartaches of being a teenager, devoid of an aged knowledge, but rife with scorn and annoyance. (See how forced it is even when I try?)
There is little bitterness in my life right now, however. I am in a good spot. My mom journey is in a good spot. I am happy in this spot. I am comfortable in this spot. But it is in pains that I find I can do my best writing (though this is based on knowledge from my high school years, full of similar strife to what I previously referenced). Does sorrow still hold my best words, my best promise of a written creation? Or have I moved beyond that? Have I become something more?
I am unsure and at times unwilling to find out. My issues with the way I write, wishing it to be so much more than it is, stop me from pouring fingers onto keyboard clicks. I don’t truly know what to write, and I fear of sounding juvenile, of bringing to something a lack of meaning from a contently led life. I fear not knowing enough to truly write from lived knowledge, but rather bits and bots placed on paper made to make happy those who know my writing. Aimed to impress with overly used clichés, familiar heartache and the same old swoons.
But the satisfaction of those swoons quickly thaw, and I long for more. I long to be deeply understood. I long to pour all of me out, thin and transparent against the screen, and to then be carefully collected and embraced. I don’t truly know what there is of me inside this brain and body that doesn’t feel embraced or understood, however, but there lays a hunger — a dull ache of words having gone unsaid. Emotions not given their due right. Hope and fears diverted rather than divulged.
I want to follow that ache, to live it, to drown in it, to write it – and to come up from its depth with eyes wide open.