Sometimes I write in metaphor, and sometimes not. Reality needs dressing up for many reasons; often pain is either hidden or understood in words that make it more real in the seeing of the textual version of the scene. Joy can be notched up a bit to share an episode that caught us at the time but loses in the telling. Nature has become a history of what we were, a living lesson that evolves in its own time; a time that man has wound up tight to fly much faster for some reason, and blurring whir of hummingbird wings cannot keep up the pace.
I’m frightened by the facing of a new semester. I’ve lost too much of late, while gaining too much more of knowledge of real life. Statistics and New Media, analytical and explorative; spaces in which I find both comfort and release. And yet, I am hard-pressed to keep my fingers off the buttons canceling out.
A need is there to read and write and still I need a cave; or come out in the sunshine and revel in what is left, forgetting what was important left behind. Or have I simply lost the trail and feel again that overwhelming fear I felt at five years old, teased by a loving uncle into belief I’d never know the warmth of home again.
Fear of failure, of non-comprehension or lack of time and mental input; or maybe just the putting off of goals just as the ribbon comes in sight. Human fears, shared by the majority, though hidden in demeanor—or as with writers, in their words.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology