Battlefield

I stand at the edge in despair. Dejected. Confused. Alone. A sullen spectator to the fading magnificence of my literary world. Ravaged and ruined by the conflict of rules contained within simple words of caution. A lone witness to the power in the invisible placement of intentional boundaries.

I move. I shift. I aimlessly drift. Wide-eyed and helpless, I circle the perimeter. Careful not to disturb the susceptible surface of this unforgiving ground. I know the explosive consequence of misstep. I want. I feel. I am bursting. But I have no syllabary with which to translate my anxiety.

I see them out there. In the field.

My words.

The soldiers of my thoughts. Deliverer of my emotions. Protectors of my heart. Of my soul. Dueling and jousting. Bleeding and crawling. Fighting their way through the stifling oppression of the unimagined mind. Racing to reach Me. Fierce in their determination to Be. Certain of their right to exist. Within. Me.

And they are correct.

The violent passion. The desperate brokenness. The blinding love. The debilitating hurt. The exultant joy. The immaculate, beautiful messiness. This is the stuff that fuels my muse. The responsive sensations that inspire me to write. And to write well I need their wild abandon to corse through my blood and stir the sensitive tremor in my hand.

I see them out there. In the field.

My words.

And they are correct.

I need them. Unequivocably.

And all the frenzied intensity that inspires them into life.

Writer. Artist. Lover.

I thrive in the emotional spaces. Between.

There is no other way.

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