It’s been a while. And by a while, I mean a long time. Sometimes it feels like aeons have passed and I no longer recognise who I used to be. And other times I look at myself and think I’ve just upgraded. Or downgraded. Who knows. It feels as though the words no longer come to me as smoothly. There’s no flow, no rhythm, I didn’t use to struggle with this. I wrote in my last post of how perspective changes after the loss of a loved one and someone explained to me a couple of weeks back of how grief is like a concussion. Sometimes you don’t feel it’s affects straight away, sometimes you don’t see any different. I think this loss of being able to write is a part of it. But you cannot give up on the things you enjoy, so here I am trying another 30 day challenge.
Funnily enough, I wrote those two paragraphs a while ago, but since then so much has changed. We are in the midst of a pandemic, my anxiety rocketed, but thankfully isn’t so high anymore, and I’m feeling the spark to write again. The words are a-coming, slowly, slowly, I’m healing.
Or maybe I have never really healed. Our wounds close but they remain under the skin, just waiting to be pulled out by a stray thought or whisper. Us humans are fickle like that, I find. Or maybe it’s just me. But I don’t think I’m unique in this case. These past 4 month have been life changing in many ways, but I’m also still stagnant in many. Hey, that’s life.
Prompt 4? 5? Who knows
The End: Write a poem titled ‘The End’ that isn’t about death, a break-up, or the apocalypse.
The end is nigh, she says.
The recesses of her mind ask her of it,
but she resists the temptation to give in.
It is a fear that holds her back,
once burned, twice shy. Or something.
The end is nigh.
She wants to commit,
but fear rises up her throat,
a sickness that has spread through years
(years of holding herself back
from marching to goodness).
The end is nigh.
Because she sees the end of dredging
through the mud
Her mind is done.
How long since she has compelled herself
to be better.
She must shake off the muck
that has her shackled in
her own treachery.