There are days when there is just nothing really to write about. I listen to my music and as it sweeps through me I try to find inspiration or a little something that could move me to want to write. Most days I have thirty odd ideas that I could take and run with, but when it doesn’t cause my heart to race or passion to explode in my soul, I find myself continuing on the journey.
If I could I would find those poetic words that draws a reader into the dark abyss and gives them something to hold onto while they explore another world. I am not into writing political dissertations, or even to lead people down a path with my writing; the path each of us is walking is long enough, there certainly is no need to divert oneself to my crazy life.
I am in the midst of writing this book, okay trying to write another book, and I find there are days when the words are stunted, when they are small, little parasitic nothings that a three-year old could write. Then there are days when the words flow out of my fingers like that dark and scary place in brain has finally woken up and decided to join the land of the living.
And I struggle with finding ways to bring those beautiful days of poetry and peace to the forefront, and to shove the incredibly frustrating days of silence away.
Even today, I read what I am writing and part of me questions where it is coming from, and why couldn’t I instead write a post that was evocative, or at least emotional. Why instead am I sitting here whining like a child? I picture thousands of balls of white paper littering the spaces around my trash can, while I scream and pull my hair. Of course, on the computer there isn’t those somewhat cathartic balls of paper, so instead of I am forced to stare at my fingers and demand that they type something…anything.
I love to write; I love to find new ways, with new words to express myself. I love to push myself to find that deep place within me that I can visit so that the words are not pin balling between thoughts of ridiculousness. There is this place deep inside of my soul that is so peaceful that I don’t even need to sleep to find it. It is so vast that I can feel the walls surround me like arms, and it is so dark that light is unnecessary. It’s this place that my words travel from, my ideas come from and my friends find me.
And despite the fact that you can never go there, it is not lonely for me. But the journey to get there is much harder than simply closing my eyes and wishing for it. The journey involves my breath, my soul, my darkness. It involves finding the fear inside of me and exploiting that to light the path to the other side. It involves dispensing with hope so that I can drown and therefore, always saved.
That is the place I must find to write. And I could sit here for days describing it for you, until I visit again, I will not be home. For the truth is, I can only write when I am home. I can only find my way, when I start from home. And the truth is, there is no other place I would rather be than home.
Home may be brick and mortars; home may be tents and sand; home may be a secret garden that rests despite inside each of us. May we each find our way home.