I’ve abandoned my writing. I’ve left her wrapped in a blanket on the front steps of the local firehouse. Not even that. I’ve left her there naked, with no supplies, with no thought whatsoever as to her wellbeing. And though it’s been about two months and she is a distant memory – I’ve forgotten her face, see – she haunts me still.
She knows something. That with her I know my truth. The closer I am to her, to her pages, the closer I am to the mirror reflecting me back at..me. The further away I am from her, the further away I am from that mirror and the little responsibility I then have to own up to myself. To all of my shortcomings and misgivings and other prefixed verbs.
When I write, I feel the closest connection to my soul, to Source. I always seem to want the pen when there is a truth in me that I want to share or reveal. I write, and it all makes sense. I am at my most relaxed. No barriers. No facades. No pretend. And on the other end of the stick – or the sharpened lead pencil in this case – when I don’t write, when I don’t feel compelled to pick up a pen, is when I am at my furthest from myself. Disconnected. Disillusioned. Distracted.
And so it is now.
I am in the place where I can still hear the cry of the child at the firehouse door, although we are so far apart. She calls for me. I know there is a message she must give me. That next character? That next epiphany? But I turn my ears away from her because, it seems, I am not ready for that revelation. But when will I be? When are we ever? Perhaps we never are and we need not wait then for the burst of inspiration and sense of readiness but instead, be courageous, turn in the direction of the oncoming cries and make our way to that paper, to the truth, to the message that only the pen can speak.
Maybe it is not for our own sake we need to do this, but for the sake of those who might need to hear it too.