I need to start this just to start it. To begin. To “be” again.
Chapter one of book whatever. I'm once again in some foreign place; feeling alone but open and expecting inspiration. I’m doing so much of what I’m told that I’m having trouble doing "homework". That feeling that I had missed is creeping beneath my veins. That desire to be be more again. To open myself up to be filled. A vessel. To interpret the sounds around me. To make them new again. To belong to music only I can hear. I need to be a part of that world. I need to make it real. I need you to understand. I feel a restlessness. I feel wounds I thought had healed slowly unraveling. I am raw and deliberate in it. No longer numb. Living in that sterilized world that cradled me. Held me still and motionless. How do I belong to myself again? It can’t be forced, I know. Reminders are inching into my mind. Echoes bouncing off walls. Zigzag. Slowly and quietly behind memories. Now faster, with more intention. Was it monotony that forced my creativity? The need to break out of something. To assert my existence upon my surroundings? Was it that lack that challenged me to build something worth sacrificing for? And I did sacrifice. I feel empty. So much has been taken from me. How do I reclaim it? I still need strength. I still need to be wrought of iron and diamond. Where are the people I believed would understand me? Where are they hiding? Who is this for? It’s for you. It's for you. It's for you. But first, it must be for myself. Enough.
