“Writing is a struggle against silence.” ~ Carlos Fuentes
I sit here, my expression as blank as the sprawling white before me… the emptiness that has haunted my nights for the past month yawns into an abyss of never ending eternity. Words dance before my eyes and tease my mind yet refuse to get in line and flow with creative verbosity onto the page… instead, they hide in crevices created by life stresses and soon an overwhelming desire tempts me to just walk away. I am here and there, back and forth, up and down – every which way but clichéd loose… So many good ideas want to be at the top of the list yet I am loathe to let them creep there in case I lose myself in them and neglect some other duty or responsibility. But in refusing to accept their inevitability, I fight them and, alas, get nothing constructive done.
I could write about my week and my accomplishments and in that I might find comfort. The places I have been and yet others I could not go. I could write about the joys which filled me yet falter with an explanation about how I don’t feel fulfilled; I could share the happy times had with friends and the meeting of other wonderful people yet true happiness eludes me; I could recall the loving memories and haunting pasts revisited; I could admit I am trying to do too much – tongue in cheek – as I hold my hand out to take more; I could smile through tears and boldly stride ahead despite my fears.
There is no need to worry – for in me is the strength to move forward despite the weight of emotional baggage. I am here. Through all these things there winds a common thread upon the silver lining of hope: I feel, therefore, I live.