Sunday, September 11, 2011

The Lost Pen


For the past few weeks…perhaps the past few months, my soul has felt like a butterfly with a crumbled wing. I can still fly, but I can’t soar very high. I need to start writing again. I need to start reading again. I mean passionately, seriously, and avidly begin again. You see, I do read, but it doesn’t penetrate my mind. The yearning to discover uncharted lands, the hunger to be an explorer upon the pages of a world entirely fresh and new—it eludes me. I write, but the words don’t really dance or skip or spark or blow up. They just sort of…stand there. Looking up at me, expectantly. What do they expect?

Sometimes it’s happy to be oblivious. Oblivion is a delightful cup of coffee to drink when you are living your life as only half a person. But I am not oblivious and that is the entire problem. Somewhere, in invisible corners of earth or within cupboards that never quite close or bushes with raspberries which lay forgotten, among some place like that I have lost a part of me. That secretive, wild, quietly enchanted part of me that gives me the fervor to brandish a pen and embolden the paper. My writing pen is lost.

And I don’t like it. Not one bit. So I shall rally my spirit and double my efforts. I must write. I must read. If I don’t surly a part of me will die.

And when one lives in a world without the mysteries and pleasures of imagination they may still be able to walk and talk and breathe, but mark my words: They are very much dead inside.
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