I am here at Failing Cemetery soaking up the death and despair. Not quite. It is a serene little lot with plenty of character. The stones are scattered and often faint as far as legibility. Like Mary Wire, we’re all a mystery long after we’re dust and bone.
A storm approaches today. The skies are a damn filled with rage. They wish to give way.
Last night was an eye opener. I have not been honest with myself for a couple of years. Out of shame, I locked my closet and lost the key. Recently, I parted both a figurative and a literal door.
My first love is the written word. It’s a medium with which we can paint a thought or a concept. I was its slave from the start. I fancied myself a painter of words. It was my refuge. I could not forsake it. Yet I did.
Inside my closet languished several boxes of my written work. Most of it lead nowhere. There were segments upon segments of short stories, poems and the genesis of books. Like a flame, my creativity burnt out. A gust of nothingness washed over me. I put an end to my childish things and made an attempt at being a lifeless human being.
When I met David, he tried hard, from the start, to open me up. I was scarred and terrified. I wanted to remain a clam. Years of abuse, manipulation and rejection on a personal front eroded greatly who I once was.
Last night, I vented like a mad woman. What I am is not profane, unworthy or grostesque. My creator made me in Its image. I am a piece of the body of a universal church. This is my gift to humanity.
I AM A WRITER.
Always have been, always will be.