I’ve not been writing much of late; I’ve been too lost in a life turned suddenly labyrinthine and well-nigh impenetrable. A couple poems have wrenched their way out, but with such great effort that the results seem pale and feeble. So I have sat in wordless darkness, waiting.
When you are still enough, silence becomes palpable. It becomes something you can feel, a physical pressure against the skin. Stranger yet, you can actually even hear it. I have finally been still enough for long enough to begin feeling and listening my way out of the labyrinth. And now the words are coming back, but in unexpected ways.
I’ve begun writing again, in halting bursts, in a black-and-white school composition notebook, in pen. I suppose it’s the writing equivalent of comfort food, harkening back to earlier times and simpler pleasures. Not all such memories are happy, but that doesn’t appear to matter. It seems there are some things I cannot say through a keyboard and the crisp legibility of Times Roman.