Sometimes, I long for the breath of sorrow that once guided me.
No longer is the twisting wind and the gnashing teeth of mourning cries guiding my fingers to my pen and my heart to the beat. No longer does my spine twist at dusk – tying upon itself as my hands press against the small of my back, pushing my pelvis forward as I arch back, back, back into the great beyond of darkness and light. No longer is my sleep punctuated with awakeness and my days punctuated with sleep. I no longer am curled into the shadow of myself and plucking words from heartstrings that have long since bled dry.
Still, on nights where the moon is hollowed against the backdrop of the sky (nights where the sky is poised like a dagger upon the earth) I hunger for the sorrow that once drove me forward. I hunger for the aching and twisting pain that had pricked my heels until they bled into the cracks and calluses – the never-ending fear of myself and the never-ending thirst for tomorrow. I thirst for the nights of stolen words dripping down my throat and tearing themselves out again – where passion was oxygen and the lack of it inconceivable.
The nights where words were an inexhaustible well.
Now, when my fingers press against the pen, it is not a comforting sigh, but a grimacing pull. Forming words from air is enough to cause a pain deep in my bones – a hollowing feeling to create something from nothing. Instead of the darkness, instead of the bottomless pit from where before my creativity had bred, there is now nothing but golden light. Soft and sweet in its simplicity and joy - and it’s there where I rest. It’s there where I have found a resting place for my head where night wraps upon my shoulders with a sigh.
It is home and the cotton and sea air engulf me every morning, wrapping my bare feet with sand and pulling me deeper into tranquil waters. It is lovely – but my creativity does not thrive there. For every moment my heart beats calmer, for every moment my pulse slows into languid loops (for every moment of peace), my words only dry up more. My once infinite source of language like a puddle in the summer sun – moving elsewhere to seek more turbulent hearts. Following the howling cries of midnight to feed and fan their flames.
And I am left in their rippling wake.
Peaceful, calm, happy – and silent.