no longer do i hear them raging, writhing for attention, as i balance on the edge of sleep.
they no longer rush to fill the silence as i absorb the colors of a landscape, begging to lay down description.
their absence has left a stillness i did not know existed inside of me.
i picked up a pen and started scribbling in journals around age six. i vividly remember leaning against the brick of my school wall, penning slowly, lovingly, words to describe my present. the pouring over never quite stopped. until now.
i don’t remember the last time i wrote creatively. i bought a new journal over a month ago, thinking i might reignite the passion for documenting. it has yet to be rekindled. i fear the fire may be dead.
in all honesty though, i feel less fear and more…peace.
words served a purpose for me for a long time. when i struggled to speak aloud how i truly felt, words gave me the space to exhale. i wrote stories and poems to express my constipated emotions. i described the beauty resonating before me to bridge myself to a connection i did not feel internally.
now, my insides glow with overwhelm simply from witnessing the bath of gold washing the tree tops at sun down. in the glow, no words come to me. no words for a person who considered herself a writer at one point in time. around people, in crowds on sidewalks, at concerts, in restaurants, i no longer list poetic descriptions of faces, laughs, or gestures. without my brain clicking away like a type writer, i get to experience those faces, those laughs, those gestures. i feel them instead of clinically recording them.
i find the more i enter my physical space, the less i need written words. the experience of feeling them becomes enough.
if i told my self three years ago this would happen, i doubt she would have believed me. words were my savior. the only light in my center of darkness. the change happened when i found wordless means of expression. when i found my hoop. when i re-lit my passion for yoga. when meditation reentered my life. when i walked, silently, along the edge of the water. i did not find words in any of these spheres. just my breath, just my body.
and it was all just enough. all of it.
the words may come back. i do not know for certain if they are gone permanently. that i cannot say. perhaps i will always be a writer. perhaps i will always love description and documentation. perhaps. but i am discovering i am so much more outside of a word lover. so much more.
let the words continue their vacation. let their silence ring.
this peace is bliss.