The quiet. I am thinking of the quiet, of the writing in the writing, the wondering when I’ll find my way back to the writing, the wordplay I enjoy, the thoughts expressed, the desire to communicate.
I am thinking of the quiet that has taken my voice, the quiet that has become me as I’ve ceased to want to speak, the voice that has left, gone on the road like a young runaway boy of a storybook era, clothing bundled up and tied at the end of a stick, held high above a shoulder.
The voice craves liberty from obligation, but if I let the voice leave, watch it walk down a dirt path, say, “I understand. All has not gone as we thought,” what am I left with?
I’m left with a pile of debris, the words swirling around in my computer, attached to files, residing in documents. Words that want to leap and flee, to find new options of expression. I want to let them go because I don’t want to hold them hostage in my virtual computer world. The words deserve escape.
Each day I wonder if I’ll want to speak again, and each day slides into the next and the next and the next.
And I want to believe this is a glitch in my system, the barrier I must push through to prove my worthiness.
My worthiness. I’m always aiming to prove my worthiness, for somehow, somewhere deep inside, I don’t feel worthy. And no matter how I phrase the question, I don’t receive the answer as to why. I don’t know from where crept in undeserving, but now it is my roommate, the companion that follows me, through my life, through my day, whispering in my ear, taunting. It accuses me of grandiosity when I strive to make change and chase a dream. It tells me I’m not special enough or have not paid off an unknown debt.
I’ll pay. I swear I will. Tell me when and how, and I’ll cross off that burden to allow me to reach the heights I crave, to become the someone that I know is huddled inside of me eager to see light and life.
Those who snarl at doubt and push through, how do they do it? How? My youthful confidence has stepped aside to make room for doubt born of experience, the experience that has humbled me, made me shier, more timid, more unbelieving.
This is not the me of my birth, the one who eagerly reinvented the wheel if it didn’t turn the way I wanted.
A glitch, I say. Just a glitch, a temporary station to allow me the vision to see how others struggle and overcome because, really, truthfully, I was spared struggle in earlier days. I grew confident and certain. Cocky even. Yes, cocky.
Cocky enough to dismiss a secure path to vault into the unknown. Cocky enough to believe that perseverance would reward.
And maybe it still will. Maybe I’m closer to the beginning of the journey than I know, even though I feel so far in. Maybe I haven’t hit the real heart of struggle.
You see, I don’t do well with patience. I want it yesterday. I want the guarantee, the promise. The hard work doesn’t scare me, but the mystery does, the ‘maybe it will never happen.’
Someone asked me if I wanted to go back, back to the past of safety. And even the question robbed me of my breath, the thought of living the life that felt so very wrong. No, I can’t go there. But can I really be here? Can I?
Can I not?
I will give it today. And tomorrow. Okay, another week. Or a month. Till the end of the year. Okay, a bit longer. Yes, a bit longer. I got here for a reason. I just must trust enough to stay.