"You were born to do this."
I reminded myself as I sat there feeling encaged in a flurry of endless thought and emotion.
"Why do I have to feel every aspect of every event of life, so deep?"
I thought as I fought myself once again to simply pick up the pen and drain the overflow of despondency onto paper.
"Breathe."
The words, letters, verbs and thoughts continued to swirl in my ever rampantly unsettled abyss of ideation.
Once I surrendered to the raging of the erupting of the soul..there was calm.
It's likened to the deaf..taken away their ability to sign..The dancer with both feet removed.
Had I no other pleasure but to expel grief, fervor and elation and form them into words to heal the shattering so entrenched..they appear unreachable..I'd beg to be buried with just a writing utensil and endless reams of freshly pressed paper.
"Theres Light."*
I mouth that..as I continue to jot as if I were stitching my heart back together with this pen.
Even though I'm within this seemingly grave like cave of aching..I can write.
The beauty is in the creation..The ability to construct, like a carpenter..all that your heart desires with your own two hands..to simply Heal the paragraphs of life that were written badly, write over them or erase and rewrite..if only it were that easy.
I don't aim to undo..I cannot.
Just to poetically fabricate from this point on..allow the stumbles to happen and Love greater than thought fathomable.
Surrender. To the page.
Scribble it out, empty it onto line after line..and crawl atop..until the words fill the fragments and the ink stains your fingertips..Keep climbing upon the proverbial stacks of paper until the towers reach the aperture of the pit.
Creating the mending of affliction, soothing the misery of the choking of words you cannot utter, but you can scratch them onto tablets to deplete the churning of the mind.
Write. Write badly.
Write as if in a mad race to the finish line, then start over again..Until the trails of Letters stretch so long..you could dance upon them for days.
Then Breathe.
Soak every word into your skin as if attempting to heal the afflictions..
then Become it.
Copyright © Natasha Ivory Evans 2016
Writing the Unspeakable
