Inevitably Yours

29 Apr

As a writer I have taken to saying that “words are all that I’ve got”. My sentences will outlive me and each word written reminds me of my own mortality. I used to believe that I could consistently control the quality and depth and at times I wrote in vain pursuit of something legendary. When in truth, I could never own these words that are sprawled upon this page. As they are being read, they become interpreted symbols that mull about your head snagging themselves on any memory that may surface. These words are no longer under my possession, they are of me, they are from me, but they are no longer mine. No, I could never do them justice.

These words have been my sturdy crutch through ill-fated times and have demanded me to be resilient when I was in the depths of my chaotic mind. Writing a dose of words poses as liquor would to a stone sober alcoholic; it is a quick release that is much needed to endure everyday life.

I become intoxicated from the midnight writing sessions. The world drifts away and I am able to see the fragile face of truth with clarity. It is the ultimate high to write page upon page in a fit of passion and leave my mental and emotional states spent. Still, I fail to stake claim to these words. They are eternal, in their notebooks until time takes its toll and they become illegible and weathered. Once upon a time every word was a new born and their birth stained my fingers with ink and formed the blueprints of a life. I thrust these words out there, into the fast moving river of reality, to ride upon a dangerous wind, to invade minds and disrupt sheltered worlds. I could never do these words justice. For I, alone, could never accomplish such a task.

I am drawn like a moth to a flame to used book stores and feel as if I have found precious gems when I find a book with several notes scrawled into it. The notes always vary from sloppy scrawled penmanship that ponders the authors meaning, to elegantly written thoughts on life and love. I gain a sense of warmth, knowing that someone has read it years, maybe decades, before I, and saw it fit to write in the sidelines or underline passages they perceived as worthy. The writer’s at the time, may have thought that these notes would only serve as a future reference for self, but ultimately those words belonged to people like me.

Even then, there is no true ownership. Words are like transient butterfly’s waiting to flutter away once they are free of their cocoons.

How sorry I feel for the soul who refuses to seek the truth and beauty that lies in great words. How tragic it must be to not be able to attempt to define expressions of the soul through ink. Some may think I am being overdramatic but there are others whose soul reflects an image much alike mine. We are the ones whom are impossibly in love with words. Words have limitless possibilities and are able to invoke courage, produce power, and speak transformative prayers over the heart. Words exist on a timeless plateau beyond our reach. No, we could never do them justice.

At times, I was dangling and holding onto my threadbare sanity by a sentence. I threatened to plummet further into nothingness. Even after the alcohol devoured me, the pills poisoned my veins, and the blood refused to drain… the words still echoed in my head. Some of the words were once mine, others were from the greater writers from yesterdays I’ve never known. They whispered truths, formed tragically beautiful poetry and still demanded my resilience as if it was a long awaited prophecy.

These words are not mine. No, I could never do them justice.

These words belong to my tears, my laughter, my pain, my hope and my despair. These words are from my mothers scrawled out suicide notes written on the backs of envelopes, left on the kitchen counter. They are from my father’s sermons, written in his younger years when I was bottle fed Psalms and raised up on the words of Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John. These words are from Sir Francis Bacon, Kahlil Gibran, Margaret Atwood and Lee Maracle. These words are from my Grandmothers I love you letters left upon my bed. These words are from moments when I was too afraid to utter a syllable. They are the words from the yellowed margins of musty books. They are words exchanged during a short conversation when lives intersect momentarily. They come from songs and ballads and dances. These words are from the mouths of both teachers and fools.

So you see my friend, these words could not possibly be mine. These words are inevitably yours.


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