Dear Friend

I always knew writing came easy to me. I took pleasure in seeing my thoughts spill onto paper. I felt comforted by the fact that what I thought or spoke never seemed to measure up to how I wrote. I took so much pleasure out of it, that just the act of setting myself up to write seemed cathartic. Clearing the table, removing a fresh sheet of paper, setting the pen, finding the soft spot on the chair and putting pen to paper….words were good. Yet, for almost the last one year, writing was being done more as a chore than a pleasure. I kept telling myself that it was just a block and that it will clear itself up, but it did not. The more I tried justifying my inability to write, the more it haunted me. It almost felt as if someone had crept up in the stealth of the night and had emptied my head of words, thoughts and rhythmic sense. Life gathered me around in its petticoat and swirled me around. It allowed me to get caught up in the ebb and flow of people coming home and leaving. It enveloped me with the idea that motherhood was always a good excuse. Somewhere within this tidal wave, at a little moment when the waves subsided and there was time for a little reflection. I need to start writing again, even if it is in fits and phases..only then can I get through this part of my life with my sanity intact. It doesn’t matter, what I write..I just need to stick with it and maybe someday I will find myself again.


About Binaryfootprint

Don't just hover, put the shoes on and start walking. View all posts by Binaryfootprint

One response to “Dear Friend

  • Bead Rifle

    Perhaps there are no good excuses to not doing something that your soul wants to. There is a way even to listen to the stars I recently read (Astereseismology); certainly there is a way to listen to one’s soul?

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