A period of time has gone by since I last thought of returning here to write. I almost wish there could be some digital simulation of dust being cleared as I struggle to remember my password and read over the only other post I have ever written on this site.
And yet this place beckons me. A constant ringing in the deepest recesses of my mind that calls me to shout my voice into an enternal void. Like a never ending canyon I simply wish to hear my voice reverberate off the earthen walls and upon return be strengthened ten-fold. I, like every writer that I can possibly imagine, has at one point stood on the edge of this gap. This place of darkness that makes them question their very understanding of what it means to write.
“Why do you write? “
“Who are you writing for?”
These questions move past like whispering winds, chilling to the bone and strong enough to push any hand away from the pen. Yet at some point each and every writer must answer. Some choose to jump without puase, mouths and minds on fire, caring little off how far they may fall in the process. Others take their time, finding the a solitary path that is meant for no one else besides themselves. Most of all what I see is that one by one each of these writers have left me behind on the edge of the gap. Watching many climb to success and even more fall into despair. Yet I remain fixed in this place, unable to decide if I truly want to heaar what the gap will whisper back to me if I finally choose to call for it. If I finally ask the question, “Am I truly a writer?”
… The sound fades into the darkness of the gap, and I awaite an answer. I wonder what I should do in the mean time?
“Why not write?”
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