Re-meeting

I have forgotten how to lay words on a page in a voice that belongs solely to me. I have forgotten how to pry a story from my bones, how to bleed imagination over paper. I have forgotten Thea’s name, Téa’s name, Taya’s name and the sound of Tobi’s violin and the streets of Hadar — a city I’ve spent nearly a decade building and traversing in my mind.

For much of the last few years, my voice has distorted into that of a student, an academic writing not for oneself but for a rigid syllabus that afforded no curiosity or imagination. These years have also distorted my voice with expertise in a field that sits askew with all that I love and cherish; art, community, and the earth beneath my bare feet. All these years spent in pursuit of self-preservation — and what have I to show for it? Were the paper and the accolades worth shadowing the whisps of light that connect my soul to creativity, to the universe?

Somewhere in the deep black sea, I hear myself calling my name, Calling my name, begging me to remember what I sound like. Who am I? How I wish to re-meet me, to hold my hand and tell myself, “I’m coming. I’ll be back soon. Hold on just a little while longer.” Me and I — have been two arms of a vast galaxy spiraling each other but never touching for too many moons.

But like stars waking up and blinking into cosmic existence, I’ve seen sparks of myself in the darkness. Bright spots like twinkling suns promising an end to every shadow. My voice grows stronger, my imagination more vivid and clear.

I am re-meeting myself, slowly and soon all at once, a writer and storyteller and creator.