I live my life through the words I write
If she can work part time
in a store
to pay the bills
and devote her afternoons
to writing her novel,
owning her dream to be a novelist
and tell world
she is a writer
then
I can work my part time job
to pay the bills
and devote my non-work time
to writing my novel
owning my dream of being a novelist
and tell the world
I am a writer.
I can do it, too.
Another book devoured
within hours.
The joy I experienced
within Lucy’s world
had me skyrocketing
to corners of imagination
and learning sensations of my body
seldom visited
or experienced.
Living out what-if scenarios
in detail
through until the end,
mirroring the tangents
of my own imagination,
I found someone:
a writer, a character,
who thinks the same way I do.
The emotional journey
I traveled with Lucy
both resembled and outshone
similar journeys I have embarked upon
alone.
Solace and comfort and
inspiration
from a single story
of two possible realities
winding and intertwining
together
messy and imaginative
and meant to be
each in their own right.
Maybe whichever path we choose
is the right one
for us at that specific time.
And maybe
life has a way
of interjecting paths together
even after we think
we have left one behind.
– Inspired by the book “What Might Have Been” by Holly Miller
After all this time
you returned to my subconscious
drawing the curtains behind my closed eyes
to screen a movie
a movie of us
where we’re back there,
where we knew each other,
but also now, where we don’t.
How did you manage to combine
and intertwine them?
I could touch your skin
I could hear your voice.
You were there, with me,
real.
You were so real
that when the curtains spread
and my eyes opened
I looked around the room for you
hoping to find you
wanting what I realized was a dream
to be reality.
As hours pass today
the touch of your skin
the sound of your voice
and the energy between us
dissipates
until now
where I can hardly remember.
I cannot comprehend how or why
you came to me
but I thank you
and I hope to see you again soon.
You come to me in my dreams
when I least expect to see you
there you are
standing before me
beautiful as my memory remembers
you extend your hand
and I reach out mine
we connect
we are together
again.
More than anyone else from my past
I think of you.
I wonder where life has taken you,
whether it has pulled or guided you
to wherever you are now.
I wonder how much of your personality
would be exactly the same
as it was ten years ago,
like I remember.
I wonder of all the experiences
you have lived through
and how curious I am, and would be,
to hear about them.
I wonder at what it would be like
to see you again.
I wonder how those first few moments
of our reunion
would be filled.
Would there be tentativeness?
Would there be liberation?
Would there be comfort?
I wonder how those last few moments
of our reunion
would be filled.
Would there be longing?
Would there be satisfaction?
Would there be a strengthened friendship?
More than anyone else from my past
I think of you
and wonder
if you wonder these things about me, too.
I have a safe space
new, but familiar,
where I can escape and spend hours
in my imagination
just like I used to do
when I was young
in the sacred spaces of silence
I could carve out, from reality.
Reuniting with my childhood joy,
I create moments of quiet
for my eyes to rest closed,
drift my body into a half-asleep trance
and let my mind roam free.
Characters, storylines, dialogue,
they all come alive here
weaving into and away from each other
I begin in one place
to end somewhere else, far away
and brand new.
The freedom I feel here
I feel no where else.
Silence and solace and freedom.
Partway through a scene I stop myself.
Even in this trance-like state, I know
this is unrealistic.
You would never act this way.
I like to live in lands of make-believe
but the unfolding of this plot
cannot fool me.
Some dim glimmer of reality must remain
alight.
It’s so easy to think
if in one situation,
any one situation,
I had said one different sentence,
my life would be completely different.
Digging out the key from the depths of my pocket
and opening wide the little metal door
I receive a sign, a symbol,
that something greater waits for me,
something so great it could not live within
this little metal box.
Hand-delivered to me is a cardboard box.
I recognize it instantly.
My heart leaps beyond my rib cage,
my mouth explodes into a smile
and my skin turns hot and clammy
as I take the box in my hands.
A corner is missing, exposing a corner of pages
within: pages I know, and love, and made.
You’re here.
I tear open the box,
gently extracting the stack of papers,
including four new ones written by someone else.
I feel everything.
I feel tears spring from my eyes
at the compliments,
I feel my head nod and mind expand
at the critiques,
I feel a deep exhale escape my mouth
at the suggested path forward,
I feel my heart race and palms sweat
at the positive encouragement.
I feel safe, and calm, and reunited.
I squeeze the stack of papers
close to my chest, just like she did.
This is coming home to myself.
Just imagine
the acres of free space
I could free in my mind,
and the hours of free time
I could unleash in my day,
if I could stop thinking of you.
Dawning Words 