noun
I began this love affair with writing over 20 years ago. Always secretly shy, unable to truly express myself, for fear of whatever, rejection, ridicule, judgment, not being understood. I never found it simple to allow the words to flow from my mouth. But the pen was my translator. It understood me. It translated my thoughts, my fears, my worries, my ideas and made them fluent enough to be heard. To be understood. To be noticed.
We broke up for a while. Writing and I did. He knew me too well. He was able to say the things I was afraid to say. People thought we'd be together forever. I tried to walk away from him. I endured heart ache and pain and confusion and darkness alone... never wanting to return to him, because I knew he would make me face my truth. But he was always there. And he loved me. Infinitely. Without limits or boundaries. He let me say what I wanted. Be who I was. Or at least who I dreamt I could be.
Now, I'm older. I know what works for me. I want to know who I am. I no longer want to be afraid of who I could be, where he could take me. Take us. Baby steps you say... but little progress is still... progress. I'm ready.
Amour. Infinitely.
No comments:
Post a Comment