I used to write all the time. Writing was the only thing I could do to feel my soul, and know I wasn't entirely useless. Words freed me, allowing me to live a life outside of the one I was not currently enjoying. But then I started to enjoy life. I used words to express love and devotion, rather than to escape. I meant them so strongly, felt them with my whole self. A funny thing happened then, when happiness left me. Words left me too. My favorite friend whom I could always turn to, the one place I felt at home, the only comfort in my dark, dark world, left me. I couldn't mean anything the same way. I couldn't find the right way to say anything anymore. A tiny part of me, and my favorite piece at that, had died. And now everything comes out sounding like sharp shards of glass, disconnected and jutting out in objectionable shapes. Finding the absolute right word that a given sentence hinged upon used to be my special skill, now I am left tongue tied and ill expressed.
And sad.
But I have to say good-bye. Things have changed and being a wordsmith, crafting sentences into compelling paragraphs, my love affair with words, well, we are no longer one in the same. There was a divorce. A separation. Now moving on is the only way to be happy.
Why does it feel as though I am cutting my heart out?
I should change my name...my face...every identifying characteristic so that I can be this new person who cannot call themself "writer." Truly, I, or the I, I used to be am lost without this.
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