About ten months ago, a friend of mine died. As morbid as this sounds, I felt a little bit guilty to be alive. And I stopped writing. Not because I didn’t love it, or that it had ceased to be a mode of expression for me–quite the opposite, actually. I stopped because I was afraid of what I would reveal–the anger, the darkness that I would find.
And then my plan didn’t work. I had to do it. I had to write. About her. And it sucked and it was hard, but it was good. Cathartic, even. I wrote about the confusion, and the pain, and the joy (that doesn’t require happiness), and the support and light that only comes when it can be contrasted against the dark everywhere else.
I have been thinking about dreams a lot recently, and was talking with a friend about dreams, and I realized that sometimes you just have to dive in and believe. I’m not very good, and not very confident, but writing is something I still cannot stand living without. I’m not fully myself when I am not expressed through writing and the words I put down on the page.
So here I am. Writing again. Fulfilling dreams (or at least walking toward them, acknowledging their presence.)
Every time I put my hand on my chest and feel the clock beatings of my heart, or hear them reverberating in my head, behind my ears–I think of her. And that is enough. For now.