#rebound writing

[reboundrising]

The Whispered Shout

Did you come looking for something scary for this All Hallow's Eve?

Well, you've found it, but it's not something you're bound to expect. There's no fantastical setting, no elaborate mythos from which to draw inspiration. I would argue that it's more terrifying by far.

With deep and conflicting fears come choices that you'd sooner freeze than come to make. Would you rather be known, or would you rather be forgotten? Would you rather be remembered at the cost of your anonymity, or would you rather find yourself having faded from what you've known- safe, hidden, but your very legacy rides away on the same wind that carried you.

Would you rather be surrounded by people that you presume love you and hear you, by masses who believe in shades of certainty that they know you, but in truth they merely know their idea of you? Would you rather be a spectre in the night who holds solace in the few who know you so intimately that they can presume your innermost thoughts?

Would you rather whisper, or would you rather shout?

In family and fandom, the worlds I have spent my entire life knowing, both are heralded as a place of community, similar in more ways than different. Do they not feel like a home until that feeling crashes away in a tidal wave? Are they not both often inundated with these very same choices?

Doesn't it make your blood run cold?

It does for me, I must admit, so much so that I have often found myself paralyzed in how I use my voice. What of those who seek your counsel, but when you raise your voice, they beseech your silence? What are you meant to do when a whisper is too quiet, but anything beyond it is too loud?

Where will you go when the feeling of "home" ceases to exist? If you shouted, does home fall away because those who made it turned and showed you their fangs? If you turned your tail and ran, were you so loud and so emphatic that the wolves sought to chase you? If you whispered, did you see so many who didn't see you? Were you certain that you didn't belong because you were silent, too afraid to be heard? Were you illuminated, like a lighthouse on the sea, or did you become one with the shadows, safe for another night but finding that very night as your persistent and solitary company?

Once you take that first step, the control is no longer yours. Are you prepared for that? Are you ready for the possibility that a single thought could come to define you? Can you find your voice now? Or has it been stolen away from you? Is it suddenly hard to move? Can you breathe?

Are you afraid now?

I am a soul who has given countless thought and action to several 'homes' throughout my life. I am the soul who has spoken too loudly and been shamed into silence. I am the soul who has held their tongue, fated to either be prompted into making a sound, or fated to be so silent that their presence in the mind of others is impermanent. I am the soul who has mourned a loss of home because they made themself known and were met so cruelly to the point of fleeing in fear and hiding in the nearest and most superficial of refuges. I am the soul who has faded on a breeze, aware that in spite of the life they have lived through watchful eyes alone, they hardly lived through action. They are struck by awareness that in exchange for their stealth, they have come to know loneliness, and that in their departure, it begs a burning question:

Does anyone know that you're gone? Did they know that you were even there? Did they see you? Did you feel loved? Did you feel joy? In those days, months, or years of life that you gave to your so-called home, do you regret how you spent it? Did you leave behind a legacy, and if you did, did it inspire any memories that you could hold close to your chest?

The choice begs to be made with each moment. It claws at you, and maybe you're certain of the direction you wish to take.

Or maybe you spent your time paralyzed, unmoving, planted at the crossroads while time passes by, and you realize the crippling truth that threatens to keep you up at night:

This is scarier than any tale.

[reboundrising]

Fear of The Pen

To write with the pen is to write with a sense of finality. You need a sense of conviction to raise the pen, as permanent as spoken word. Like the pen, there is no erasing what is done. You may be able to strike out your mistakes, but those scribbled lines are scars to cover the past. No matter what you do, the lines and the mistakes that they conceal will always remain.

One of the hardest lessons to learn in life is what to do with those redactions. They may haunt you every time you’re reminded of the scars that they left behind. It’s ugly, and it hurts in a way that not much else can. It’s hard, especially when the wound is so fresh that you can only wait for the pain to die. Sometimes, it never does.

I find that my biggest struggle is those ugly lines. I have yet to embrace that which I often impart unto others: Mistakes are a learning opportunity. I know that I, among others, am cursed with the memory of those stray lines and misshapen images. So many of us are afflicted by a sense of self-cruelty that may, in some cases, bleed onto others. These mistakes can be fashioned into something beautiful, even if they are in pen. The challenge lies in being able to allow them to exist, and finding the peace within yourself to yield to their potential.

This is what I understand, but have yet to learn.

[reboundrising]

Welcome Home

Regardless of what circumstances have brought you here, you stand outside of a quaint little log cabin, seemingly nestled in all on its own. To the left, you can see a vegetable and herb garden, and to your right, you eye a couple of apple trees. The smell of fresh, baked goods wafts through the open window.

You step up onto the wooden porch and chance a knock, but there is no answer. You fidget with the old doorknob and find that the door opens with ease. Immediately, you’re greeted by a sprawling living room and lock eyes with a bandanna-bearing golden collie nestled on the floor by the fire. You stiffen, but the dog remains where it lies. Somehow, its gaze seems warm and inviting.

Hesitantly, you step inside, and your gaze catches the warm glow that the fire casts across the walls. Something about this place feels homely to you, and the great, cherry bookshelves beckon to you as you glance over them. As if gently compelled, you approach the bookshelves and peruse their contents, only to start as a cold nose brushes against your skin. You quickly look down and find that the dog- Rebound, your thoughts suggest to you- has approached to investigate. You find that your thoughts, additionally, reassure that the dog will not harm you.

You find a series of books of varying lengths at your fingertips and, after careful deliberation, you finally make your choice and settle down in the armchair near the fireplace. It’s only as you move to sit down that you realize that the front door has shut, then you find yourself ever-increasingly aware of the tantalizing smells emanating from the kitchen, and freshly noting the soft music that plays from a radio settled neatly on the mantle. You might have a snack later, you decide as Rebound pads back over to their prior spot and settles down peacefully, as if all is well.

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