My Dear Pen,
My beloved vessel of ink --- life's blood and nourishment to my heart and soul.
I've neglected you. I have not been following you. I have not even held you in the warmth of my palm. I've let the things of life crowd and choke me, tie my hands and keep me from writing real, honest, blood-letting, soul-washing, spilling of words onto a page with you.
I've reached for other implements: a chewed, dull-tipped pencil, a scratchy, skipping bic, a sliver of sidewalk chalk. I've written, I've forced weeks worth of poetry, clever disjointed parts of fictional stories and scenes, and they have been the flavorless mush on which my disillusioned soul was fed.
I've lied to myself and said that I am writing -- see, there's the proof. Words on a page, words that someone who didn't know me might read and smile upon, and even praise. I've written, half-heartedly, half-heatedly, lukewarm piles of phrases and bits of fluff.
I've been afraid, my pen -- too cautious to trust you to lead me through the emotional upheaval in my own life, in my own heart. I've pretended that I didn't need to, didn't want to spill those words and try to make sense of their meaning. I didn't want to make them permanent, send them out into the universe. Even though they're private, locked away in my journal, writing them gives them substance, and means I have to answer to them.
I did not trust you.
Today, I will write. I will let those words and emotions, those hopes and fears, flood the flat, white landscape of this page, and know that as I cling to you, my trusted friend, the lifeline that will keep me from drowning will be the obsidian ink that flows from your body.
I believe in you.
And so, I begin.
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Friday, June 12, 2009
My Dear Pen,