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Rated: E · Prose · Writing · #2078700
This piece, although rather short, accurately captures my ongoing struggle
Having spent the better part of my childhood writing countless short stories and composing all kinds of poems, it goes without saying that my greatest dream when I was younger was to be a writer. And no, it wasn’t one of those fleeting, ephemeral childhood desires that disappear just as quickly as they are conceived; it was the real deal. I remember reading aloud my poems proudly in front of the entire class at my English teacher’s behest in the sixth grade, or refusing to put aside my pen and paper until I had finished perfecting my latest article. Writing was one of the things that I had always been sure of – I knew I may not be the next Joni Mitchell or I might never be able to paint a Mona Lisa, but I certainly had a way words. It was my thing and I could always count on it.

Things are a bit different now. I don’t feel quite the same way anymore. Like a jilted lover, I tremble each time I consider penning down the flurry of thoughts running amok in my head. Although the jury is still out on who abandoned whom, I guess somewhere along the road I let other priorities get in the middle of us until it reached a point where every smidgen of motivation to put pen to paper was drawn out of me. Before I knew it, I had hit a seemingly interminable brick wall.

I long for the days when writing came naturally to me. The process of creating something new – a work of art, no less – seemed curiously enticing. It still does, but I don’t feel like I can do justice to it anymore. Some might say that I’m already setting myself up for a losing battle and that it is a self-fulfilling prophecy, but the written word now feels distant and unfamiliar – like the touch of a cold and inhospitable stranger. This stranger, with whom I once shared so many memories, has now spurned me. Ours was a love ablaze with fire, but today it stands unrequited.

I still hope to get back to my old self one of these days. The girl who grew up on words and who was succored by their ability to offer beauty and solidarity amidst chaos is still out there somewhere. Someday the stranger will let her in again and so will begin another stormy love affair. Until then, all I am left with are my rusty words.
© Copyright 2016 Vera, Chuck and Dave (jasminebb at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/2078700