Who am I? It seems as though I am always searching for meaning, looking for “more”. I want my life to mean something to me, to my friends, to my children. I want to make a positive difference in someone’s life. I’m okay with that difference being miniscule. I just want to know that what I said or did mattered in some way.
I know that there have been writers I’ve read whose words have had the power to lift me out of my circumstances and transport me to another world, writers who have given me my dreams back when real life stole them away. I would like to be that type of writer, but if I can’t be that type of writer, maybe I could at least write something that would ease someone’s mind, that would make the day more enjoyable, something like a poem they could read aloud and get lost in.
That is one of the things that I love about Neruda’s poetry. I love reading him out loud. I feel like he is (and I do believe I’m not the first to say this) the people’s poet. He’s not a poet that you have to go to grad school to be able to understand. He doesn’t require me to have a dictionary next to his book so I can look up every word. I read him and I feel like I am lost in a forest or walking along a cliff by the seaside or meandering through a desert. He makes me want to get lost in nature for a while. He makes me want to learn the names of the wildflowers and the birds and paint each one of them into a poem.
Perhaps I should read more of him. Perhaps I should pull out this book of his that I love and once again devour his words, get lost in the wild lands he writes about, lands full of so much love.
I just know that I need to soak up someone’s words. I need to find my inspiration again, need to be passionate about my writing again. It has been too long, and I have felt the longing caking on me like rust or barnacles, like something that needs oiled or scraped off and removed.
Writing here is my attempt to reach out, to touch someone with my words, to be touched by the words I read in return. I’ve been a solitary creature for too long. I have been reclusive, antisocial, and so burdened by the mundane that I’ve just about given up on the passionate, creative, spiritual side of myself.
Writing here is teaching me that the part of me that I most love isn’t dead after all. It was simply in hibernation. Now I feel a tingle in my fingertips, the beginnings of a dream reawakening, and I breathe a sigh of relief that I’m making it through one of the darker chapters in my life.
I didn’t die that time that I tried. It was messy, and I learned what it was like to be hospitalized (more than once), but maybe all that has shaped me into who I am now. A fighter. An intense woman, a strong person full of compassion and love.
Now I need to turn my experiences into poetry or prose, mold it into something worth reading. I don’t know how to do that. When faced with the blank page, I feel this overwhelming sense of inadequacy, this overwhelming fear of failing. I need to overcome that, though, because my voice is fighting to escape.