Don’t expect this to say much. Don’t expect any revelations, wisdom, or the cleverness in my words that I once had. I’m just doing this because I feel like writing – or perhaps more accurately, I don’t feel like not writing.
It’s been eating away at me for the past few weeks, or past few months, while sitting at my desk working or walking with my dog or laying in bed or doing anything at all, scraping at the door of my mind, all the words that I haven’t written. The thing is that it’s been so long that I can’t see what they want to say anymore – it’s as if a thousand books were caught in a tornado, words torn from the pages torn from their spines and left in a pile that makes no sense at all – has no beginning, has no end, but has a screaming insistence to try to be understood. To be put back in order, and once again find a place to rest on the page, to be heard, to escape the cage of my mind and go running, tripping over themselves as they scream in their madness & joy from being released after being locked up for so long.
So now I sit in bed after just waking up, and try to get something out – some sort of beginning, put some meaning to the maelstrom and maybe, just maybe, feel a little better. Feel like I may have done something, said something – or at least broken the rusty and forgotten lock on the cage the words were confined in, letting them soon realize that they are free again, that I woefully missed them, and that I’ll never be able to apologize enough for caring what other people read over what they needed to say.
You’re free. Please understand that I need you just as you were, without fear of pissing people off or alienating others, the same words that made some fall in love with me, and others feel less alone. The words that hated and healed. The words that made me feel less alone.
Come back. It’s time. And… I think I’m ready. I think I have been for a long, painful time.