In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Twenty-Five.”
There are 26 letters in the English language, and we need every single one of them. Want proof? Choose a letter and write a blog post without using it. (Feeling really brave? Make it a vowel!)
When I met you, you re-shaped my sentences and stories in such a specific way that I couldn’t write without your image hovering over the page telling my words where to go, where to hide, where to slip, and where to stick.
And my words follow you. My words needed you since you smiled and looked at me as we danced.
You’re like a shadow: inevitable during the day, faint and haunting at night.
You’re the invisible vowel that holds my story together, and I cannot write without you.
And all my stories are a rewriting of your name, a rewriting of the moment you came to my life, a revisiting of the many yesterdays you have made relevant, vivid as the present time as if you are still here.
The blank screen I left last night–still here. Not that I didn’t have things to write. Quite the contrary, I had too many thoughts last night. As always, I fight with myself and argue that my words aren’t good enough. I declared defeat and went to bed at 10:30 PM–something I haven’t done in months. At 7 AM the next day, making my coffee, bidding my lovely mother to have a nice day at work, returning to the blank document, I realized it wasn’t really defeat. It’s not defeat when you give your thoughts a rest they deserve; and so the words will return. They always do. I just need to let them know that I’m waiting here. Always.
I attempt to write because there is a story wanting to be told.
So I write.
Then I read it back and say:
“It’s not good enough,”
and then I wonder:
“When will it be?”
Can stories be unwritten?
It’s like un-seeing the sunset and
believing the sun has come and gone:
I can bathe in darkness for awhile,
fooling myself that I would no longer see the sun.
But always, the morning comes.