I must admit, I have this strange affair with writing….
A brooding, impulsive kind of relationship that draws me in, time and time again, only to tell me that it’s where my heart is and ask, “Why do anything different? Why abandon a place that feels so good, only to come back in shambles and allow it to put you back together again?” Time and time again my deepest emotions spill out onto the page in words, syllables, and phrases that make perfect sense but none at all, at the very same time. I’m a stranger and refugee at the very same time.
It allows me to be the heroine of my own story, never exposing that I’m really only the petrified protagonist. I did not choose writing, it chose me; in my lonesome, in the days that I sat with my heaviness and my light, my intuition and my keen sense of empathy, every nerve ending on my skin prickled by life’s abrasiveness, the pen and paper sat with me. It told me a story I didn’t know to tell myself, only when I looked up from the pages, could I tell what I’ve created- my own reality. Like life chose me, writing chose me to escape the fear of the sights I could not yet see. It loomed over me, it was the silver lining on the cloud.
I wrote this in memory of how writing has always been good to me, yet it alludes me for things more immediate: being young and on the chase of money, my daily life takes every ounce of me, requires my attention and emotion, yet doesn’t replenish me- not like writing. It’s the ligaments to the pieces of me, keeping me from losing myself and my sanity. This strange love affair I have with my chosen form of self- expression draws me in every time, but still, I am not loyal. I come in like a thief in the night returning from an emotional disturbance that had become my imminent reality. I then find myself slipping away with spiritual healing and calmness, after reclaiming the missing pieces and reflecting on my words. The words find me and I commit them to paper like I want to commit to coming back. I leave without a goodbye so I won’t be obligated to return, but my heart knows that this is where I belong. Although the ink isn’t spilling on the paper in a feverish release of resuscitation, I know it never leaves me. That within me I’m always writing my story. That these words make me better.
Thank you for reading, even though these words weren’t strung together in haste honesty for you. They’re for me and because of them I know my journey is real. I’ll never stop writing, and this love for this beautiful thing exists because it is me.
💖 Kimmy,
So bluntly sincere.... 