how did I forget? how could I have been led so far away from me? how many years, how many roads, how many hands have pushed me to here, and how do I get back to me? why was it so easy for me to become convinced that I was not who I have always been? is it too late to go back? is it fair to those around me if I do? and if it is, why does it feel so like a betrayal? can you love me the way that I am meant to be? Or only the way that I have become?
track back...try to find it...linger in the moment, the split second, the blink of an eye when it all happened. When did I put down the pen and stop thinking that I was creative and instead decide that I was only crafty? Was it something in the water at work that made me think that I was meant to scale the corporate ladder, rather than go on flights of fancy? Did the money pervert my sense of art and bribe me into stopping up my creative juices?
Maybe the how and the when of it are less important now. And the why? I think maybe the hurts were too fresh, too new, too close to the surface. When I'd start to create all that would come out was pain, and I wasn't ready to deal with it. I couldn't bring myself to expose it like that. What makes now different? Some of it doesn't hurt any more. And those that still do are demons that I guess I need to exorcise. Which would make writing my holy water.
The stopper is out, the hunger to create is back, I am ready to tilt at windmills and I think I have found and old ally. Or maybe it was me that needed to be found.