When I was eleven years old the writing Gods opened the heavens, the sky rained idioms and I was saturated with words. I stood in the downpour with my arms in the air, letting myself become soaked in their beauty and I was drenched in a freshly watered passion. The seeds of creativity took root and steadily began to grow. The garden of ideas was a portrait of spectral beauty and has continued to blossom in my imagination.
Perhaps I didn’t realize the depth of that passion until I was old enough to understand the true gift of being able to express myself from somewhere deep within my mind. At that tender age of eleven I began writing silly poems, at least I thought they were silly, but the words just wouldn’t stop. I began carrying a notebook everywhere and would jot down each idea as it came to me. During slumber parties with the girls, they would all sit in a circle on the floor giggling about the boys, and I would be in a comfy chair writing poems about them. Eventually I just stopped going to the parties because their incessant giggling was too distracting. We were twelve, I don’t think I missed much.
Teenage angst and unrequited love only fueled the creative fires when I reached high school. What teenage girl doesn’t write reams of hopeless thoughts about boys, loves lost to the mean girls and the ones that got away? My pubescent phase was a match made in heaven for the endless stream of sorrow filled words that tripped over themselves to be freed. I still read some of those old scribblings and am transported back to those ugly braces and bad 80’s haircuts, but I still can remember exactly how I felt when I wrote those words.
I lost that passion for a while. Perhaps it was losing myself in a bad relationship, or perhaps it was just life in general that drained my will to create, but during that period I felt empty. The voices that used to tell me their stories had fallen silent and I was alone with nothing more than my reality. When the fog eventually lifted, I began writing my novel a few years ago, but it didn’t access all of voices that had been quelled. It felt constrictive in a way because it followed one idea, and so it sat and the characters became idle once again.
This blog has helped to lift those voices into song and I am able to hear those choirs and the beautiful harmony they have been waiting to share. I even feel compelled to write poetry again which I have not done in a long time. The book now has new life being breathed into it and characters that were once cryogenically frozen in the tundra of my muted brain are now becoming reanimated. Perhaps they too feel the freedom to speak their mind because they are no longer in the spotlight. They have the will to move in and out of my consciousness and speak when they feel compelled to say something. We are dating again, getting to know each other which is sometimes awkward because there are currently three of them and one of me, but the conversation is never boring. We will continue our ritual dance of the double entendres and I will wait for the day that they are able to pick up the tab.
polysyllabic profundities 