The quiet doesn’t come easily to me. I don’t know what I’m afraid of finding here, but I wait.
Sometimes I wonder if it will ever come. This idea, this dream of writing. I have glimpses of it, but nothing real to grasp. The quiet assaults me, mocking me with the silence of fingers poised over keys. I long for the rapid click click click as letters fire into words into phrases into meaning.
I’m learning, even in this imperfection, this silence. I’m learning that silence may be better than meaningless noise. Noise is only beautiful when it has purpose, and sometimes my noise is pointless. So, maybe quiet is my uncomfortable. Maybe that is the very thing taking me out of my zone and stretching me into thinner, more transparent places.
Because I have learned something in the silence: I’d rather be raw and thin and at my breaking point than be impenetrable.
When I write well I know it. I breathe deep and full, sitting back feeling utterly empty and wrung out. Right now I feel like my sponge is dried up. I am not even sure what I can soak in. It is said that a sponge can hold more when it’s wet than when it’s dry. And I suddenly realize, I am parched.
So, I dance on the edge of the water, hoping to soak in little bits at a time. Hoping each drop will multiply my ability that I may again sit in front of the page ready to be wrung out fully, a deluge of authenticity pouring out.
Until then, I soak in all that I can find, even if it is just the sun. Even if it is silent. Silence is real, and if that is what it takes for real, then I will wait.