There was a time in my life when I wanted to do nothing but write. And so I did. I wrote until the ink emptied from my pen or until my eyes burned from staring at the computer screen for hours. It wasn’t necessarily by choice either. I wrote because I had to. I had to feel my words flood from whatever existed beneath the dark curls upon my head. Writing became my oxygen. Writing frivolously, I was able to write about my biggest fears or goals or what I expected to happen next. And then it stopped.

I don’t know exactly what happened. Maybe it was when life took over; I began to lose track of my fingertips. My ability to write beautiful words vanished, and I felt as if an important part of me had been ripped away, yet I could not gain it back. The world continued to tick by, slowly, and there was nothing I could do to stop it. My breathing became steadier, unlike when I wrote. When I wrote, I felt as if I couldn’t type quick enough to catch the spilling words. I became so unnervingly normal. I became silent. Mute. Another face in the crowd.

It’s almost as if I’ve been asleep since that moment in time. I’ve been flowing through a never-ending nightmare where words continue to drown. And now here I am. Awake. Shaken from what could have been the end. There is a chance for change; a chance for renewal. Maybe this is the beginning. Maybe this is just another hopeless attempt. However, I am ready. I’m ready to catch my breath. I am ready to have my words back.