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Why do I write?
Well, on paper my st-st-stutter isn’t a problem. Through text, I can say anything. And if some people don’t like it, Then it really doesn’t matter. I don’t have to worry about their reactions, Just mine. I may be as proper as I see fit, But there ain’t no rules ‘gainst me shortnin’ what I want, neither. I can create worlds without gravity, Or where people grow flowers instead of hair. When I write, I am unlimited in my imagination, strength, and intelligence. I can be whoever I want, And escape from the monotonous everyday. Writing is paradise, And I will never give it up!
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In all the holy places in this world,
amongst the lights and chanting, singing and dancing, there are the silent groves, and statues. Calm places, where a handful of flowers can collect, floating in the hollow of a stone, bright amidst the dark algae. These spots, where you can feel the earth moving and speaking to itself, sending a cool breeze through archways and leaves, are my favorite places to sit and breath. Escape from trouble and turmoil, for a moment. And listen. You’re still not listening.
I feel like I’ve been saying this for months, shrieking like a train whistle, scribbling with my pen on the paper until blood and ink cover the page. But still nothing. You ask me what I want, and I tell you. Space, time to think, time to process, time to figure out how to tell you the things I’m feeling. And you say, okay. Like you understand. But soon enough, you’re pressing for more. Asking how you can fix things, how we can be friends again, the way we were before. But I’m telling you, We can’t. There’s been too much broken, shattered, torn, shredded, lit aflame. I’m telling you, that I feel like I’m talking to my dad again. Sending letters of verse and prose alike, but having no effect. You’re still not listening. You say that you want to respect the boundaries I’ve put in place. Then, in the next sentence, you say that you don’t think they’re working, that you want to do something different, that your plan is better. You’re afraid that the time I am taking for myself is turning me against you. Well, if that is the result of me thinking about the situation, and thinking about you and me, then you have to accept that. Because it means that I’m learning to be myself, listen to myself. I can look at all the contradictions and backsteps that you take via texts, and I can see the manipulation. Even if you can’t. I will not deny that we’ve had good times. I’m not going to lie about that. It would be easier if we hadn’t. Then I could just walk away and not feel like my insides are being clawed out as I write this. But now, after all this, I can’t listen to you, or get a text from you, without questioning the purpose behind every word. My rose-tinted glasses are shattered, and I can’t go back to seeing only what you want me to, instead of what’s actually in front of me. Where could you possibly be hiding?
I had you only a moment ago. You were in my hand. Now you've disappeared somewhere into the ether, hiding somewhere my eyes cannot reach, and my fingers can't touch. Did I upset you in some way, my beloved object? Have I done something to frighten you? Or insulted your honor? If so, then I cannot express my apology enough. I am only human after all. I am very flawed. But please, don't hide for too long. I miss you dearly, and long to feel your pages beneath my hand, to stroke your spine, fill you with the thoughts and imaginings that are brimming within my mind, and are threatening to burst if I can't let them out somehow. Please, come back. It hurts me to know you're lost. I was having a wonderful night so far,
hours into a sleep that might’ve actually been refreshing. Until, that is, I felt the tickling sensation traveling across the bare skin of my back, from the center of my spine up to my shoulder. Drowsiness slowing my mind and body, I brushed away my hair that curtained down behind me, thinking that would banish the sensation. Settling my eyes shut again, I laid my cheek against the pillow, thinking now I could go back to sleep. After barely any respite, the feeling of tiny legs crawling along my arm shook me awake once more. With blurred eyes, I opened them and watched as an eight-legged intruder scrambled down my arm. In a flurry of disgust and fury, I sent it flying, and it dropped to my sheet with a blow single blow. I swept it into a glass and fled my room, refusing it its freedom. Before it could escape on its own, it was floating in the toilet bowl. The sound of the water draining into hidden pipes was the only time the twilight silence had been broken. I’d made not a peep during the whole ordeal. I returned to my warm bed, the conquering hero. But every few minutes, I awoke to that phantom sensation, alert as I was to it. Sleep evaded me that night, thanks to the eight-legged intruder. I don't think most brains are meant to ‘morning’.
Definitely not without plenty of sleep before. Even with our coffee and breakfast cereals, We droop and half-drool on our morning commute, blinking and turning up anything we can catch on the radio. If my mind was meant to ‘morning’, Then it would also halt its racing long before midnight. And since there's no sign of that anywhere in the future, I'll simply resign myself to being a night owl when I am able, and steal snippets of sleep over the course of the day when I can't. Yes, I'm a writer.
Words are supposed to flow unendingly from my fingertips, ready to astound and touch the hearts of those who read my words. But sometimes, I have days where the words just won't work. I try. I really do. And they try. I can feel them rushing around inside me, wanting to burst out as something beautiful. But on days like this, I feel like there's a crossed wire somewhere, or a stopper in my throat, that just won't let the words come together the way they need to. When I write them down, they sound contrived and flat, only filled with the meaning that the dictionary gives them, rather than anything substantial and new. Hopefully, tomorrow will be better, and some sleep will heal whatever injury my creativity has taken today. Mom,
I’m still here. -Loka Dear Mom, I’ve stopped asking about you. No one will ever look me in the eyes when I do anyway. Nothing other than the brief, constantly repeated words, "it was an accident", comes out of their mouths. But that doesn’t mean that I don’t think about you. What I can remember of your face is always floating on the back of my eyelids. Whenever I shut them, I feel the soft pads of your hands brushing my head, and your voice comes back in snippets of melody. -Loka Dear Mom, The Stolen Heart trees are still there. Someone told me it is-- was, your favorite place. That’s where I go now, when there are too many furious voices surrounding me, when eyes latch on to my back and trace me, listing my mistakes. I found one tree, hollow enough inside where I can curl up in soft grass and hide. But I eventually, always have to go back to the cave. It seems like every move I make is the wrong one. But no one will tell me what the right one is. Maybe for me, everything is wrong. -Loka Dear Mom, I’ve kept your treasure, all these years. It’s looped an a string, brushing against the fur above my heart when I move. The leaves carved into it are still are a mystery to me, but you were the one who made it, so I guess I’ll never know more. But I can feel your touch through its surface. It’s warmth has always been there to help me fight the cold. Sometimes, I think I see a glimpse of your eyes, shining emerald up at me through its surface. I don’t care about what everyone else says. I know you’re still out there, somewhere. Please, come back. Love, Loka. Subtext is an author's craft, right?
We're supposed to be able to take these letters and spaces, mix them all up and put them into a magical order that creates far more meaning than any of them had before. That's saying a lot, especially when a thing as simple as sarcasm was an inexplicable concept to me until fairly recently. My characters are still lecturing me on the topic. Occasionally, I still miss when they use it, and at first I'm just staring, confused and glassy-eyed, until it finally dawns on me, and they give me a quick pat on the head for good measure. They're the experts at subtext here. I'm just the one fumbling after them, trying to find the right words to convey exactly what's happening in the worlds in my head. Does anyone else ever look at the scrawling text in front of them
and wonder how our eyes process all of those little lines and circles, making them into music and stories? Scratches darkening the pastey background, imparting knowledge and opinion alike. I look at them, and wonder how we all make sense of them. When did nonsensical scribbles morph into familiar ways of expression? Who decided that a T should be two lines, instead of three? Or that b should be a backwards d that's lost its tail? These are the kinds of things I wonder about. That, and why my handwriting is so messy. It's probably just the tremors. And trying to write while on a moving bus probably doesn't help too much. |
Cheyenne Bramwell
I love to write, and poetry is one of my favorite ways to figure out what my brain is doing. 
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