At least that’s what they tell me. At least that is what I remember. Eccentric seamstress knitting together times and places. A magician creating reality from daydreams. It has been a while since I have bled. Years since my heart poured into a keyboard and I deemed it worth the pain.
Pain… I used to joke that my poetry came from a dark place, that my best words were tears I thought no one would ever see. Now, I’m not so sure. I have happy moments. Have memories turned melodies and dried in ink, but do I deem them worth the smile, the laughter, the immortality of a paragraph?
Some may argue that happiness is fleeting. That it deserves remembrance. That it deserves to be savored and set in the stone of books that line shelves for future generations. But happiness has always been–at least for me–a battle. Beauty found in a dying Daffodil, love found in a headless Barbie, and a chorus line in a bad song. I must fight for every bit of happiness.
I guess it may be worth the pain after all. My best words come from dark places.
And here I am again, dark and bittersweet. Now, what will I write?
When we’re younger and in that happy place, we never think of anything other than happiness. In those moments, reality is that dream that says “I can be whatever I want”, “I will meet my perfect Prince/Princess”, and “I will be someone famous”. We never ponder the “how” of it all. Then we wake up. Some people wake up gently—like when your parents would wake you up for school in the morning. Other people wake with a start—like when you were supposed to wake yourself up at 6 AM but you stayed up until 2 AM playing that new video game. Still, there are those of us, who wake up screaming—like when you went to sleep knowing that every dream you ever had, you were going to have to fight for and nothing was going to come easy!
Fact is I woke up. I woke up screaming! I woke up to a place and a situation I didn’t recognize and I broke. The only way for me to get some semblance back of the old me, was to write and I did. Every day, I took what I was going through and put it onto paper. I told the story that I couldn’t tell anyone. People told me I was strong. I didn’t think so. After all, I felt as if I’d splintered into a million of me. But now… now I think I’m strong.
I took all those papers, all the parts of my heart and soul and put them in one area. I put them together and published my first book. I’m proud of me now and I feel whole. I know I still have a long way to go, but for this moment right here, I took the first step.
“This is a story unfolded in pieces. Shards of a heart once whole; Remnants of youthful innocence; Whispers of wisdom untold; never the romantic fairytale, nor the nightmare it often seemed. These words are borne of my emotion. Etched by every fragment of me…”