I am back.
It has been years since I’ve written for myself. I can’t recall when I stopped writing about moments in my life, the flow of thoughts dammed and diverted back into the secret depths of my mind. Swirling and sloshing but flowing nowhere except within the concrete confines of a brittle heart.
It could be the fear of hurting the rice paper thin sensitivities of a person just to avoid the emotional drama. Or possibly to suppress the unfathomable burst of rage that is cultivated by the stream of judgements passed over trivial matters every second of my waking life. Even the unbearably blushing excitement of romance has become a mythical moment from the past. I loved some people in that way but now, the leaden cynic has applied a checklist to screen potential candidates. Perhaps I took the suffocating stagnancy for cultivating spiritual stillness. Say nothing and nothing will arise. I want to say ‘I love you’ one more time but trust is such a precious commodity to bestow on a stranger at the expense of a fragile fearful heart. Safe but so suffocating.
I enjoyed writing, word smithing as a friend called it when he was approaching the crossroads of his life. The wonderful sense of satisfaction that arises upon painting the white slate with an array of words, testing the writer’s vocabulary stock which dwindles as the brain succumbs to age and ennui. Indeed, when change pushes one into the crossroads and uncertainty plagues the mind with possibilities and impossibilities, the need to pour out the churning thoughts into a torrent of words is irresistible.
It is surprising to find that the words are still there, albeit lesser than in my younger days. I miss the cathartic flow of sentences and paragraphs that come from my precocious mind and reckless heart. Is the passion still there? Ironic that for someone who lives in the inner world for so long, I cannot tell with full confidence whether the broiling passions are still within me.
I might have hidden it so well that I forgot where I left it. Just like how I hid my pocket money in my younger days. I completely forgot the secret hoard until I discover the hidden stash while spring cleaning years later. Then I hide it somewhere else and forget.
I want to come back to who I was and take the passions with me, so I can move on to the next version of my self.