Writers’ Path Of Choice
It can’t be all smiles and warm coffee next to the fire. This art we’ve chosen to practice seems to assure us that often it will be a trail of prickly bushes, of bare feet on glass shards…
Why do I shy away? What is it that just keeps me from making the jump?
My desire to write cries within, reaches out with timid hands, scared? No, not scared, not in the usual sense, but hesitant in another way I cannot label.
It’s a bleeding of the essence, not blood and guts so much, more bleeding of soul stuff. Hands out, reaching from the darkened cave to whatever passerby may be near. ‘Come close please, hear me, see me. May I share these few words with you?’
There is no promise, little reward as age moves in brusquely and rudely, ‘get out of my way human, I am all that matters…’
The writers’ strangulation differs from the common form. We put ourselves willingly into that noose, most times foolishly. ’My time will come.’ My sunny side assures me. What sunny side. It’s the fool within, the one who so long ago allowed you to take my hand into the fire.
Who or what knowing entity are we fooling? Who do we think we are pulling the wool over? Who do you fancy yourself you are, anyway? I, you are that blank face we, who, saw each other in front of the Woolworths, every day. No hello, no nod, no humanity. And yet we dream. Off we trundle to our self made realities, half convinced that mine, your version is right and yours, mine the wrong one.
We bleed tears down cheeks unleashed at the memories, the shames we’ve played parts in. Can we ever be forgiven, by whom, you, me? Hardly.
You, I am in this chest-deep, we have to wade through it before the next deluge sweeps me, you away…