Where do the words go

I venture into a public space, the public nature.

The eyes that walk past usually drive me inside, behind four walls with blinds to filter the natural light in. These eyes walk past, but I remain grounded to this patch of, honestly damp, shady grass. It helps that the hedge blurs the closest eyes, and truthfully, no one cares that I’m here. They hardly notice I’m here. I breathe easier.

The sun and shadows tickle my feet. The cool verdant grass dampens my pants. The wind plays with my hair. My pen poises on the paper.

Where do the words go?

Writing from the mind is easy. I am always in a state of thinking. In meditation, I think about these thoughts; I watch these thoughts as the eyes pass by me.

Writing from the heart, the soul? Well, let me back up to a couple months ago. My heart could not speak, but I listened. And, I heard the heart was blocked.

I could give all my love to the world, but I could not receive someone’s love—it looms heavy and tall, towering over my head on a strong foundation that could consume my walls. Yet on pages, my heart could receive the words (until I couldn’t), but I couldn’t put my heart on the page.

Even if I promise to myself that no wandering eyes will see the words, the heart-words die on the pencil tip. The worst eyes to view these words are my own.

The words are there but blocked. Brick by brick, every critical experience builds a wall around my “cringe” moments. I erected this wall to protect myself. I didn’t realize I’d be cramming my light behind it as well and cutting the connection to my heart.

I’m walled off from myself.

I’m hitting the wall, making noise, dripping ink onto the page with every throat-tearing hit. Shifting uneasily, now is the time to leave the page, dam the river, repair the shields. Cover your ears so you can’t hear the shouting through the barrier.

Why am I so uncomfortable with myself?

I sit in the quiet. A numb static. I call this contentment, peace, serenity—no, not serenity, this is not the peace from khaos. This is muted. Like the white walls of the hospital.

Every page becomes a crime scene. Words stolen by shadows with blunted teeth. The ink drains from the pen in lossy blotches, drowning the crying heart-words.

Give me my words back.