Put Down The Pen
Time for some vulnerability.
I never write anything that I have not lived or am currently battling through. I keep myself transparent and authentic in all I say and do. You ask and I will answer. I am an open book.
And sometimes my approach to writing that book is not the most recommended.
There are times I compose "new" chapters with content from the days gone by. I copy and paste the story from last year into the blank page of tomorrow. I rewrite in real time the battle I claimed victory in six months ago. I pick up the pen from my past and start scribbling in the empty space designed to be a clean slate for my future.
A few months ago I made the choice to pick up a certain pen; a pen whose purpose was always to destroy me. I am not exactly sure why I did. Perhaps I wanted to see if it would still work. If it still knew how to write and remembered the right words to compose.
But regardless of the why, I chose to use that pen.
I said I would only write with it for a day. That will do no harm. Only 24 hours and then I will put it back. I should have known it would not unfold that way.
Although a bit smaller than I remembered, the pen still fit perfectly in my hand like it never left. Gliding on the paper I effortlessly wrote. The words pouring out with the pen knowing how to keep up. Not one "i was left undotted and not one "t" left uncrossed. I forgot how good it could feel and the relief it could bring and the safety it brought in the familiarity of it all.
So I woke up and picked up the pen again and again and again. I am still holding it in my hand.
But now that time has passed, the novelty has worn off. It always does. I have to press harder for the ink to appear on the paper. These blank pages are doing all they can to resist any imprint from the pen to be made on them. They know it has nothing new to write. They know the ending it wants to compose. They know it has no intention of making its final words "happily ever after."
But yet I still insist on using it.
My hand hurts from trying to make this pen work. I need to stop picking it up. I need to let go. I need to put it back in the drawer to never be used again.
And then I need to go find a new pen; one compatible with the blank pages yearning to be filled with life. One that writes truth and hope and love. One that fits my authentic hand.