Recently, I wondered, why did I stop writing when we started dating?
Suddenly, all those poems, blog entries, and odes to anything just stopped. I used to find myself itching for a paper and pen to jot down a sudden good idea. I rarely ever got that feeling again.
My immediate answer to my own question was, I guess I only write when I’m sad, but I realized that was only half of the answer.
I thought it over some more and asked myself, why does sadness make me write so much?
I actually came up with several answers.
1. Writing is the activity of the lonely because it is used to communicate feelings indirectly to an infinite void.
2. Writing is the means of picking at your scabs at night in the hopes of finally understanding the pain behind it.
3. Writing is a form of catharsis for the feelings that have gotten so intense that people feel stifled and numb.
4. This reason seemed most relevant to us: Writing is a tool for people who are hungry for an exchange of intimacies but afraid or unable to find someone willing to listen.
I used to write so much because I thought no one could understand me. I had to write it all down to make sense to myself.
I wrote all my fears, dreams, wishes and regrets on empty digital spaces, just to leave a trace of myself on this world. I exercised my imagination with the creation of a fictional girl in my poetry, who was The One for me.
I used to write for so many reasons – but all those reasons disappeared when I met you.
Whenever I had a new thought or idea, I could share it with you. When something great or crappy happened, I could look forward to telling you all about it. All my rants and ravings, you managed to hang in there and listen to that unfiltered mess.
You even made sense out of me. You took the time to know me and eventually understand me. For the longest time, I felt like the unwanted novel in a library, a book considered to be too much of a hassle to read and appreciate.
Yet, despite all that, you took this dusty volume off the shelf and gave it a try.
You read all my stories of failures and successes, all the insignificant events in the plot of my life. By reading my story, you affirmed me.
By your affirmation, I was made real, like a fairy tale character wished into existence, drawn from a long-forgotten tome.
You made me different – no longer the insecure, unhappy, and miserable writer you had met. You saw something in me worth reading. Afterwards, it was hard to write, because I was so happy with you.
I wonder when I’ll be happy like that again.