To Write is To Love

Time goes by, so slowly. Outside, another day is dawning and I have not slept. My heart is torn - it wishes to write. Write, write, write. Yet I cannot, no matter how long I sit in that old armchair by the now dusty window. I pick up my pen, or laptop, but nothing comes out. Where could my words have gone? Why am I suddenly so afraid?

“You are good! Just relax and write what comes to your mind!” say they. How am I supposed to write from my mind when it is currently calmer than the last hour of the day? Nothing is moving, all is quiet. Dead? Maybe, I do not know. I wish not to. Because if it truly is, how can I ever enjoy more of life? How can I experience these breath-taking moments passing by my mortal presence, and know that no matter how they shake my soul, I cannot write them down? No one will ever read them, no one will ever get to see the part of me I unveil on this rotten paper.

How I am afraid of this tragedy. It creeps into the corners of my mind, whispers; “You cannot, you are not worthy, you have forgotten, you have nothing to say.” Those whispers make my head spin, my hands tremble - the pen falls on the floor. Moments pass and the everlasting presence of sadness hides behind my eyes. Tears roll down my face, salt covers my lips. That is the taste of defeat itself - salt.

After a few days the feeling still lingers there. Never moving, yet not stopping. I hope to find answers in nature, music, wine, on the pages of my favourite books. I look at the classics for answers. But no one answers - every single one of them sits there, silently, among the pages of their novels. They have closed their eyes; thus they cannot see me. Or maybe it is I who has taped my own eyes shut and am confused by the imagery reflection of my pitch-black sockets. However, the case be, I cannot find help among the inspirations of this world.

“Why do you care?” they ask. And I wonder with them. But as I ponder, my heart feels heavy. It knows the filling to my soul, which resides in the written words of this world. I have loved words as long as I have breathed, and I shall love them until the cold soil ground I walk on swallows me. Words have been my escape, my future, and my only hope. They have carried me, even when I have not been able to vocalise anything.

Words are a remedy for this aching soul. They help me be more, more myself - and sometimes a complete stranger. A stranger who writes so passionately I admire them. I gasp at every plot they figure out on a cold, early morning, and every stanza they scribble down between their university lessons. I see the spark behind those eyes, and in that moment we become one again.

Why is that passion now gone? Why am I not able to bring this complex poet back into my headspace?

I sat alone for a long time, without writing a piece. My soul stayed caged behind every possible mistake I thought I would make. Since I have always been a lone wolf, I never asked for help. No advice, no compassionate chat over coffee. I thought this would be the end - like I had many times before.

But love, oh love. It came bursting through my heart’s chambers, tidying up the mess I had left behind with my countless tries to pick up the pieces of my passion. It shook me; not with violent terror, but with gentle force. As if it knew what I had wished for all along. Inspiration struck me again, like being drunk on the pure essence of life itself.

I could write again. No matter what the theme was, I could put words together to create illustrations into my soul. I wanted to speak, whisper and yell. I saw the spark gather behind my fingers. And even if I did not know what to write or was desperately slipping back into the dark abyss - love was there. It stayed, never faltering. It guided me, dropping me off right where I always left my creativity. It did not judge - no matter whether it understood my words or not. I guess that is why the Cupid is often painted blind. For true love is not always understanding but supporting. Just being present. Paying attention while not actually doing anything.

I owe love a lot - more than that most likely. I do not know how much in reality. Because humans do not realise everything that has been given to them. It may come with trial and error though, as far as I myself have noticed. It is a struggle, an ever-growing fight with your own existence as well. You let love in and fight to realise it every single day, or you do not. My soul has chosen the first path.

I shall close my notebook for now. A late spring shower keeps on raining behind the window. The train brakes. The man sitting next to me has taken my hand into his, ever so gently. Danke dir für deine liebe - und jeden Tag aufs Neue.