The Journey Back

It took me many, many years to start writing again and the journey back was difficult, it still is; the biggest hindrance was self-doubt, it still is.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

What did I think when I picked up the pen?
Would writing, again, be the confession
Sought for a life full of magnificent
Anonymity? Where comfort lay in
Solitary discussions – with myself?
The shadow that lives up in my attic
Sent alarming messages of caution
And the expected conviction that I,
Would once again, bare my heart and my soul
Only to have them toyed with – then returned.
I had little else accumulated,
That I accepted the pain and the shame
As more than suitable compensation.
Some years pass, and my dreams die – quietly.
Each year marked and remembered only by
What I have left undone – and forgotten.
The attic is quiet, the shadow kind
To me and what I had not accomplished,
Reminding me, only infrequently,
That I am better off with un-success
And all my accumulated failures.
I am diminished to complacency
And the sublime belief that cowardice
Is the safest and – fastest – avenue
To heaven and all of its promises.
I believe the lies and bury my head,
The shadow is victorious once again.
When a certain milestone was upon me,
I forced myself to accept the invite
And spent the evening my back to the wall.
The gathering continued around me,
But I was a spectator, not a guest.
The final blow to my humbled spirit
Was a casual remark, innocent
And unintentional, I am sure, but
Deeply wounding: “Didn’t you used to write?”
I looked back on a life lived in safety
Bound mostly by fears of my own making.
I had listened to my attic tenant
Far too many times and, with great resolve,
Bought a notebook and a pen with blue ink,
I would write again! And this wallflower
Would not only blossom – but show its thorns!
There was nothing I could not do, nowhere
I could not arrive at and certainly,
No emotion I would not feel, define
Dissect and explain away – in writing.
I laid out a pristine sheet of white,
I held my pen, caressed its straight edges -
And that was all I could do – for two weeks.
Finally, on the third week, my blue pen
Starts to cry; hesitant words, meek phrases
That are more outpourings of regret than
Literature; but at least I have begun.
As the phrases grew, taking shape and form
I heard the caution in the shadow’s voice:
“Are you sure this is what you really want?
This way, there is only uncertainty,
No one will even read the words you write.”
If I am read, it would be a blessing,
But to not write down the words in my head
Would be both a failure and denial.
“Why choose to write?” he asked one last time.

It was not my choice to write….it chose me.