Untitled

on

“my heart woke me crying last night

how can i help i begged

my heart said

write the book”

Rupi Kaur

Lately, my urge to write has returned with the force of a waterfall. A waterfall of words rushing over each other in my brain. Rushing to arrange themselves. Demanding to be written. Demanding to be loved. Demanding to be wrapped around life. Whispering strongly like the whisper of a river overflowing in the distance. Whispering to me of the sensual, of the beautiful, of the deep, of the shallow, of the funny, of the delicious, of the bitter, of the release, of captivity, of flying, of falling, of colour, of grey, of wind, rain and sun. They whisper of life. They whisper of writing it.

They whisper to me, “write us. write us. we demand it. we insist it. we deserve it.”

I was called to write once and then I forgot. Or did I forget? Why did I stop? Why did I lean into writing and sharing the sterile? Perhaps because I forgot to live. How can I give what I do not have? Oh my God. I forgot to live. I merely existed. And how sad an existence… to simply exist. So mere. So poor.

Was I conscious? I think not. Am I conscious now? Yes. I am alive. I know it. I know it because the words told me. They whispered to me, “write us. write us. write us and live again.”

As so here I am. Powerless to resist. Writing them. Writing them. Writing them. I am alive again. I live. I live. The words bring me life.

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