I tried to spark up conversation with you, again, and it went no where, like always. Sometime a few weeks ago, I saw something on your Instagram that struck the final chord and I snapped. Those were the last tears I will shed over you. I see the hole where you use to be but it looks more like a door now, amidst a field of poppy blossoms.
[My mindpalace is pretty magnificent, if I do say so myself.]
I’ll always know to find you in the pines.
Goodbye, Sweet Dixie.
I didn’t know it then, but I wrote something for the occasion, a poem no less. I’m only just a wordsmith.
These thoughts circle like wolves.
Predators. Tooth and claw,
blood and bone; until the soil is saturated.
From this sanguine fluid,
the anemone blossoms,
in the memory of us &
I am laid to rest.
Writing came easily to me, albeit poorly, as a young tween. “Of course it did!” I think to myself now; I had a lot to say about the events of my young life to date. School did little to improve my crude art. Actually, school did me little service, so I withdrew into books, and of course the aforementioned internet. Inside these chatroom’s I found a world of writers that called themselves roleplayers whose writing talents ranged from novice hobbyist to undiscovered novelist and everything in between. Some channels featured entire original content while others were more like fan-fiction channels dedicated to the latest blockbuster hit in theaters; I enjoyed a bit of both.
During the first decade of the new millennium, I found solace from the chaos and hell that was my home life in books, and writing. Over the years I improved considerably, mainly to keep other player interested in writing stories with me. Competition helps refine any skill. My source of creativity was fueled by the hell and demons of my waking life which made it easier to spin tales of great conflict and turmoil, but always to a happy resolution..at least in the beginning. As I grew as a writer, fairytales seemed less satisfying if they were always told for the tender hearts of children, so I embraced realism and finality; I also embraced the macabre.
Eventually though, the pain and sadness became too much, and even anguish can’t write the words; there was nothing left to say.
I haven’t written substantially in years, which had left me wondering if I was a fraud, and if my mindpalace is as grand as I believe it is. I’m still not sure. I haven’t produced anything, yet. I haven’t written the next binge series. So focused on what I haven’t done to even think about doing anything else…
Well, that’s going to change.
I have so many stories both long and short that I want to share. Even if it’s only ever here on this WordPress with no distinguished name or editor; I will produce many somethings, and I will write.
Sometimes the nothingness of anonymity is bliss. No name, no face, no identity; it’s just enough for the imagination to run wild.