I used to be a writer.
I would come home excited to run in my room and grab that little blue book off my nightstand and get everything off my mind. Whether it be a good day or bad. I was so happy to put that pen to work on that paper. It would start small just things to get off my chest, trying to navigate my emotions and how to handle them in such a tiny body. As I grew so did my book, becoming stories eventually about fantasies, adventures and sometimes I’d even put my real life events in just so I felt close to the characters, knowing they could fight their enemies, ride amongst dragons and still cry because their heart was shattered but still stand on their feet in battle. The world was still colorful even when the clouds tried to dim them. I thought I’d be doing this forever, maybe even make a name for myself. Faking interviews if my book had published, making sure my PR team would love me. I thought that’s what I wanted. Until I met you. You came in so fast and so loud all my attention was completely fixated on you, your laugh, those puppy dog brown eyes, your smile that creates a small dimple on your left side cheek. I was taken by your soul and carried in your arms, I got to experience your touch and how it numbed me from the outside world. The years went by and I’d forgotten about that little blue book. I didn’t write anymore, I didn’t feel the need. Time with you felt like if all the poets came together and wrote the most beautiful words just so Mozart could put it into music. I’d get lost in your melody.
But you stopped singing for me. We lost each other, you found your way to cope, for some reason I spaced my own. I had forgotten about that little blue book, but it wasn’t little anymore and I wasn’t either. It felt like I lost all of me, the fantasies, adventures, fighting your enemies and riding amongst dragons. They were all gone. The hero’s of the story were lost. I never wanted their stories to end.
I guess that’s what happens when you used to be a writer.
