It has been over a year since I wrote, or even felt like writing, this much. Which is a wonderful thing. Yet… yet, somehow I am unable to touch my emotions.
Maybe it just feels like that. But, it is almost like being a child again. As a child, the clouds seem so close, and you reach out and try to grab them, but they glide by, missing your fingertips by inches. That is how I feel with my emotions. I can see them. They float just past my fingertips. But I can’t quite reach.
Only the slightest clatter of loneliness badgers my heart. Only the slightest tremor for a girl I care about immensely. Only the whisper of a soul.
That is perhaps better than it has been, and I’m prone to thinking that the prolonged illness, and emotional pain that attaches itself to it, has left me burnt out. As rest creeps over me, as wellness spreads within my body, perhaps it is that my emotions, and the depth they give my writing, are sprouting anew, threading the holes torn by suffering and choking the leaks dry.
I am unsure if it may also be that, resultant of the suffering, I have simply acclimated myself to disassociation. To keeping my feelings far from reach for self-preservation. What I am sure of, however, is that I must find a way back to them. To hear the whispers as cacophonies, ringing in my ears as the sound tears away the silence about me. Peals rumble in the distance, expanding to fill the space between. Soon. Soon, it will return to me, and, oh, how my heart will tremble when it collides with the beautiful woman who stands before me.