I haven’t written in a while and that makes my brain heavy with words. I have multiple dreams a night, narratives clashing into each other, dampening the currently dry sand of my soul with their flexible, gentle movements. I float on the words in the dark, the brilliance of my brain trying to prove it exists, the sheer colourfulness of which that my weary hands and body refuse to conform to. It’s been many years since we’ve dipped into the devilish waters, our joints rusty, our machines covered in grime that deems them useless.
But here I sit as the sun rises behind the wall I’m staring at, turning the sky into a gradient of beauty, colour-blocking it with soft colours we’ll see on the spring collections in magazines. I speak of this with certainty though I don’t see it at the moment; why should I? I’ve seen it a million times before. But I’ve also written a million times before. So why am I sitting here wondering if I am still capable of doing it?
I don’t know what I used to write about, or what my scribbles stemmed from. My soils were not yet rich with experience, nor are they now. But I know more now than I did then, with a year that filled my buckets to the very brim, yet I find a way to keep the words, the thoughts, the grains of my existence in.
Have I grown fearful of the water? Am I afraid to drown? What if I follow the water, love the water the way I used to, and get swept too far in that I don’t get the chance to get back to living the life that gives me anything to put into words? How do you live and write at the same time? How do you do two lives at once?
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