Monday, May 3, 2010

writers block or writers fear?...

i once took a writing course in college (with professor weiss for those hws'ers like me) that changed the way i thought about my writing capabilities. i never thought i was any good, despite loving to do it, so i wrote things for myself and never shared them with anyone, except maybe in a diary or two. writing is so personal, i was terrified to be judged by it. who's to say that what i write isn't any good? i feel the same way about art (hence becoming an art history major), there is no right or wrong way to write, or paint, or long as it comes from the heart.

i was inspired by an e.e. cummings poem (i carry your heart with me) to write this. i started it in december of 2008, added things along the way, but was never really satisfied by it, and still am not. but sometimes it feels good to put it out there, not to be judged, but to release it out into the universe for no one but myself...

“Here is the deepest secret nobody knows. Here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows higher than soul can hope or mind can hide. And this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart... I carry your heart, I carry it in my heart.” -e.e. cummings

It’s that kind of impossible love, where you spend countless hours convincing yourself you’re better off without him, but then the faintest scent of his cologne in the wind the next day can drag your heart across the universe back to him. Everything he’s told you about what he wants from life somehow argues against your hearts desire, yet you convince yourself he’s the man of your dreams. Your heart and your head are exhausted from chasing thoughts of him, your eyes like dried up rivers of tears that once surged so powerfully you never believed they would stop. And up until now you still can’t admit to him that you’ve loved him so deeply for so long that not a day has gone by in these few years where he’s not been your most substantial thought. But are you in his thoughts?

You don’t imagine it being this way, you never did. You don’t anticipate that the one you fall head over heals in love with might not be capable of returning that love to you. You are supposed to be able to navigate through life on your own, so why now are you so lost without him? When did he become the compass that directs your heart?

What are you waiting for? For him to tell you he’s made a mistake? That he has loved you all along but was scared of making a commitment? That he can’t imagine a life without you in it? How long will you wait for the unspoken to be said? Will he ever say it? How long can you hold your breath?

You’ve never asked anything of him. Not to slow down his path of destruction. Never told him what to do or who to be. Certainly not to say he loves you. You support him in his decisions even when you can see the mistake coming from miles away. You empathize with him when you hear the passion and conviction in his voice. You touch him in your most compassionate manner so that he is reassured of your dedication and loyalty to him. You don’t waiver for a minute to return a smile or a touch so that he knows that you fell in love with who he is, not what you hope he’ll become.

What is this love that is so impossible, that it’s better left unsaid, buried deep within your heart, only until you are sure that it is the perfect moment to reveal it to him? Is it really so impossible? Or is the possibility that the unreturned love will be too unbearable to feel, that it will kill the fire of hope in your heart, never to be relit.

The narrative of our lives together so far is not how I thought this story would unfold. When did we start living this other existence? When did we build these walls around ourselves, and why is mine crumbling while yours stays high and strong? Why is this love so impossible?

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