My first words are lethargic, yet I know it is time. They have slowly birthed themselves, bursting out of me like an explosion.
Life is so loud that I can see the thickness and mass of the noise that surrounds me. I feel the sensation of the words. My soul is tired like an unused atrophied muscle.
Sensation and muse been absent. My ten fingers tapping out original thoughts are creaky and rusty like a derelict bicycle dragged out in the spring after several winters of inattention and lack of use.
Distraction stretches and unfurls squeezing out imagination.
We should teach children to prepare for an adulthood jammed full of clamoring urgency. Middle age will have paraphernalia collecting in the basement, garage, closets, corners of our consciousness, until there are no decent ideas or inspiration, only excuses, interruptions, and noise. When I was young I did not know that I would need to learn to be disciplined in order to challenge the to-do of family, work, and possessions. I need to carefully clear a room for quiet. As I do I am confident that the sparks of creativity will ignite.
Right now I cannot find spare words. Clatter invades even with my eyes closed. When I open them again life shrieks to be cleaned up, cared for, ordered.
This noise competes for our creative soul. Clarity is somewhere the echoes of a silent room.
The bare pages have waited for me to trust myself with words again. First words spill like heart ache.
I stare hard and curious and hungry, finally ignoring the noise. And for a moment I am filled with wonder.
I squeeze my eyes shut, salty with the sadness that has been pushing and pulsing to come bursting. Fury swells. I remember that am made for this. The anger comes because I have walked on for what seems an age, walked without words.
At some point I left the path of imagination and curiosity which lost my interest. It is a path that requires patience and trust, and a willingness to face down the noise.
The energy of rage and the sadness is important in order to walk with words.
As if jumping on the dilapidated bicycle, I press my feet down on two pedals, slow, beleaguered in the beginning then faster and faster as the blood in my legs begins to pulse and flow. In my mind’s eye I feel the wind, my salty stinging tears flowing down the worn grooves of my face. And I soar.
April 8, 2017