Ivy clings to the sober walls like a restless sleeper clutching at the sheets. Its stretching tendrils are not the green of hopeful growth or the green of eager eyes, but the green of long-forgotten memories just barely alive in the crumbling loam.
I sit in the dark, unmoving, and there’s nothing to see, but everything to feel. The wind becomes a symphony, and maybe it’s a lonely voice above my head, or maybe it’s voices together as one, with my voice among them.
I need you to understand that I write because I feel, and I feel so much that it hurts inside, like music caught in my soul. I write to get rid of it, and I write to keep it forever, because words never die. Somehow they make beauty out of uncertainty and passion out of pain, and even my little life starts to look noble.
I write because words are tears and words are laughter; frozen, yet so alive. Words are the miracle I never was.
I need you to understand. I write because… because… because I need you to understand. I need you to recognize the irregular pulse of my soul, and know that beneath the blood that paints its way through my veins, there’s more life than you can see. I don’t know how that life found me here, but it’s making me more than I am, and I write to set it free.
I know you have felt the same way. Maybe you have never felt so at home, and yet so full of longing when you’re capturing emotion with your camera. Or with your paintbrush. Maybe you don’t paint with colours or words, but with raw action and physical exertion. Perhaps you can touch a musical instrument and make it sing the deepest chorus of your heart. There’s something inside you that won’t stay there, and it’s glorious and sad and full of hope and confusion, and you know that it can’t just be yours or you’ll blow into a thousand tiny pieces trying to contain it.
What is it that reveals your soul? What is it that I need to understand about you?