Write It Out

“Who would ever write for fun?” I hesitated at raising my hand but eventually did, it’d do me no good to lie. The looks I received were less than welcoming. Was it my fault that writing comforted me? It was the only way I could express my feelings; my hate, sadness, and sometimes my happiness. Writing was there for me when he died. Only two years have passed, but it seems I’m the only one who’s still in pain.

I take a glance at my laptop, a dull red plastic covers it, its color is warm, welcoming. Turning it on leaves me wondering as I wait, should I write about it? What names will I use this time, if any? Will anybody even care? As I log on the white screen of Microsoft Word greets me, I imagine it speaking, “I’m here to listen, just write it down.” My music distracts me from my hesitation; it lets my mind free to wander, and supplies a rhythm for my fingers to dance to. In a way it seems my heart has stopped, my chest is tight and it’s hard to breath. Such foreign feelings aren’t so bad though, they’re actually a bit calming; I relent and start to write. Music melts my mind as my fingers fall into their new roles. Although I’m not all there, my mind plays memories I’d rather not have.

Mental slide shows play black and white souvenirs from the past, I can see them; him and her so happy together. I remember his voice but none of his words, his face is so bright in my memory- glowing almost. Unlike him, smiling so fruitlessly never came to me, especially without him here; it probably never will. These memories are no substitute for the real thing.

Waltzing across the smooth obsidian of the keyboard, my fingers give life to my emotions. My eyes begin to sting as I watch jumbled words, and phrases dance across the screen. It’s a well known sensation, the warning before a deadly flood. I can’t help but stop, I won’t allow myself to cry, not yet. In my mind I say, “Stop, focus. You aren’t going to cry, focus, and write.” I chant it like a mantra, something that could save my life. With a deep breath and without my music, I continue. There’s a pain in my chest but I disregard it, throwing it to the wind. The pain monster nags at me while I write; ignoring it I push on, rushing towards a finish line that I can’t seem to see. Within reach of the end, I break, the pain stabs me in the heart; my lungs are too big for my chest, and I can’t take anything more than gulps of air. It’s a horrifying thing to know that something you aren’t even aware of can cripple you like that; can take away everything. I want to stop my writing, go back to before and hope everything will be fine, but I don’t; I write.

I remember-oh, I remember; his smiles, his kind words, all his simple gestures. They seem so trivial in hind sight, but I treasure them, and hold them to my heart. I remember all the good things about him, and write about all the bad things they have brought me. More than anything though, I remember not getting a chance to say goodbye.

Finally I make it, the banner has been broken, but I’ve come in last. Tears greet me, they tumble and twirl down my cheeks, then fall to my open hands. Fear- fear of being seen, fear of not being understood- it penetrates my defenses and brings me to my knees. I slink away from the world and to the eternal safety of my silent sanctuary. There I cry, and I know that all I have to do is write it out.