And as the freezing rain hits the trees and settles into its midnight staccato rhythm, I think about where this gift has taken me, all it’s allowed me to process. I think of where I would be without it. I allow myself to be carried back to places it’s brought me into and out of, how it’s taken me to places of happiness, but mostly triggered by allowing me to crawl and claw my way out of dark and dusty ones. I think of late nights and dimly lit lights, spending hours processing until my wrists were sore. I think of the naivety in my words after finding pages scribbled with middle school, then high school thoughts. I think of pages filling up as I spill out seemingly incoherent babble. I recall that summer she died, her conversation with me about her faith in God and what he was doing in her mere twelve years of living. Those times I wanted to run, flee. How I instead took it out on the paper. I remember how angry I was at him and how I hung up after his tired and robotic questions. How I'd wait for them to tell the inevitable news that never came. How I longed for peace, for silence. How it passed as we all grew. How I avoided the one squeaking step into my doorway each time I’d pass late at night after listening to walls and doors and voices. I remember it all because it’s there, it’s here.
My memory may fade, but the letters are there. So blatantly and able to find. Able to recall at a moment’s notice, but unsure if that’s what I want. I've pegged each often-painstaking word. I've processed it all until I often collapsed into bed, repeating over and over again. Sorrow may last for the night, but joy comes in the morning. Fresh starts after long nights. I think of my forgetfulness. I think of my gratitude for having it all there, in front of me. Even the painful moments. I think of my growth and how it has taught me, molded me, stretched me and formed me. I think of the blessing it is from Him and how He knew I would need it on those days. How He infused the inspirations into my heart and my soul and the desire into the tips of my fingertips as the pen presses down harder each line.
Some days I can't write fast enough and some days I know I am uninspired, unmoved, unshaken, numb. I think about how this gift, which I now only recognize as such. I think about how it creeps out during my darkest nights, weakest days, confused moments, panic-driven, and anxiety-ridden chapters. How it comes and goes, stays and dwells, surfaces when I need it and releases me when it's done. I think about my inability to verbalize, but the ease of keystrokes or pen marks.
I am hesitant to share it. Scared to publicize my fears and my heart. Scared at it’s ability to move and shake others than myself. Scared at not knowing where the words will end up, who with leaf through their pages with their morning coffee or evening glass of wine. Scared of editing raw words and thoughts, scared of having someone else do such. Scared of sending it off to strangers and having it picked apart simultaneously with my pride. Scared at the trail that will follow, or portrayal or misinterpretations.
Still processing.
Always processing.
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