I’ve written a lot of poetry lately. But the explosive amount in the past few days has come out of nowhere. Well, if you don’t see my heart, it seems that way.
To say my writings have been sparse over the past 3 or so months would be generous. The cause, which I have only remedied of late, is that I have been running. Always busy, always running. Running not just the human race, but running from my own race.
It is hard to be alone, harder still to let yourself know it. I have been running from me, from my loneliness, from the pain of that. Really, I have been running from the cloud that everything I thought about love was wrong.
I am one of those fools who believes that there is a soulmate for all of us. But after 31 years of being alone, sometimes that reality crashes on me. And when that doubt fell on me earlier this year, I ran. Funny, I have written before on the subject of cutting off your heart, and how it ends with your chest being a sepulcher for the corpse of your heart. But I guess I viewed my heart more like a wounded animal, retreating into the brush to lick its wounds, heal.
Now, I have emerged once more, and feel ready to let my heart be open again. Ready to be me again. I can’t rightly say just yet whether this has been good, but simply what has been. A new flame must be guarded from the wind and rain, and only time will tell if I can manage that.