They were here and now... they’re not.
I feel empty, yet solid, found and yet lost. I’m here... but I’m not.
I’m told to persist, to keep going even though I don’t feel I have anything worth saying, even though I don’t think anything will come out anyway, I’m told to just keep writing.
But what happens if they’re gone?
What happens if there are no words left for me to write? No place of me to disappear, to imagine, to create, to become someone else... even if it’s only for a short while...
What happens to me then?
If this is part of me, if writing is part of who I am, and if I’ve lost a part of who I am, then who do I become?
Another version of myself?
Another ordinary character that exists in real time? An acceptable creation that appears to be me– someone real, physical and true to themselves... but in actuality is only true in part? A portion of whom I’m meant to be.
Who am I, if I’m not the real me?
Some may rejoice and feel satisfaction from my loss.
Some may suggest that what I wrote wasn’t peaceful or tactful or just or right... some may even go so far as to suggest that it’s rubbish anyway... no great loss...
Some might suggest that karma has had a hand in my suffering, that I’m deserving... that I reap what I sow...
Some might suggest these things...
I’m proud of my words. I’m proud of my effort. I’m proud of myself for taking a chance, for finding the confidence to step out of the shadows, a place many would never have the courage to leave.
I am proud of who I am.
An aunt, a sister, a cousin, a daughter.
I am proud of me.
Some people write about murder and crime, about clowns that hide... it doesn’t mean that this is who they are. It doesn’t mean they wear brightly coloured shirts and poker dotted pants or hide down drains seeking out children.
Others write about abseiling down narrow cave crevices, running from poison darts, being chased by molten lava... drowning in a submarine. None of these imaginary things mean that this is their factual life; that these things really happened to them – outside of their imagination.
Someone wrote about subtle manipulation and lust, of whips and chains and red satin sheets. Of bondage and encasement, about heart racing moments that leave you wanting more... it doesn’t mean that that is who they are. That these things are for them. It means they stepped out of their comfort zone and researched. They studied and learned, then had the courage and the support to put their work out there, to allow themselves to be judged and criticised... after all it, comes with the territory, doesn’t it?
Judgement is easy. Words are easy.
And both are extremely powerful.
They have the strength to build you up to the highest of highs, to make you shine, to blossom and bloom...
And have equally as much potential to harm. To strip away confidence, to cripple and break, cause so much damage and hurt.
Words are a wondrous gift, a precious thing that should be treated with kindness and respect. They are a blessing of time, a display of evolution, of development and maturing.
Aren’t people all of these things also?
Aren’t people wondrous, and precious? Shouldn’t they be treated with respect and kindness? Be allow to develop and evolve without judgment or criticism? Have the freedom to express what they feel and be themselves? Especially when they’re not causing harm... not real harm.
Maybe my words aren’t gone, but are in hiding. Scared to offend, to cause angst and offend. To hurt those I considered friends, people I think highly of, whom I thought, thought the same of me.
Possibly I was mistaken, after all appearances aren’t always as they seem.
Perhaps the sentences I’m struggling to produce are sitting quietly in the dark, studying and learning, gaining the strength and the courage they need to start over.
Or maybe they’re waiting for me to remember that it’s okay for me, to be me.