What am I
to write? How? I have so many questions. Too many questions. The tap of the
keys are my only sound in this empty room, their noise like a constant mantra
of sorrows and joys. Life is abundant with typos and corrected words, errors
that we cannot catch, cannot fix on our own. But rainy days may speak volumes,
sunny days may inspire us. The muse speaks, sings, into our ears the words of
our lives that must be recorded through the keys and pens that spill the truth
onto the page. Thus, we write it down.
Even to the silenced and broken,
words are the key that unlocks our deepest, darkest secrets and our pain and
brings it all to light. We write with furious abandon. We write with muted
hearts, with hesitance as the heart cries out for more, for us to dance, for
the words to affirm something. The fingers upon the keys are our songs, our
lyrics, our paintings, our souls and dares to the world. Our pens are the
swords that battle with the world; ask us to challenge those that beat us down.
With words we say: No more will I be broken. No longer will a gag be placed in
my mouth; no longer will I be a child afraid of my own self, born of hatred and
pain. Born of a broken, brittle womb. With my gift, I will write and my
children and my children’s children will know me as they did not know me in
life.
We write to pass something beautiful on. To be heard in this world of silenced, broken people. To touch lives.
We write to pass something beautiful on. To be heard in this world of silenced, broken people. To touch lives.
