Until it gets better

Just as an unfaithful lover, a cheating partner, a homesick wanderer, a runaway with a change of heart I attempt to turn back to you. It has been days, months, maybe even years. The dark does not scare me, I charge forward unafraid of the unknown. The urgency replaces the haste and each second that holds me, keeps me from getting to you is hateful. I would break every bone running out of breath, sprinting in an effort to catch the door before it is forever shut. At times I have stayed away in silence, unseen or heard, for times that are immeasurable. Like a hermit I hid away, hummed melodies that never left my head, scribbled sentences that never showed themselves on the page. In sweet benevolence I was allowed to maintain anonymity, to never have to drag my sickly constitution into the sights of the blazing summer sun. Blisters might have surfaced. From the safety I chose to never venture, had the same words on repeat, the same beats set the daily pace. This was my life in Eden, but paradise as I know it is nothing to how you would imagine it. My soul thrives when sheltered but shrivels without the crippling daylight. I had no choice but to leave, run towards that which would pain me greatly. Pain me daily. 

Parading these talents terrifies me but I cannot do without. I wish I could keep them hidden forever, push the words under water, choke them before they could reveal how inaptly I place them one after the other. I am an impostor compared to the masters, barely visible amongst those who flaunt their mesmerizing feathers. But the words pull me from my damp cave haven. The words are not shy, they are not worried about how they have been used, what others will think, how they will be judged. The words are endlessly vain and selfish, they listen to no good advice. They allow only partial control and then I must back off, let them take what is rightly theirs. These words turn me inside out, make me swim in a sea of humiliation, plunge from the cliff of humility. Amidst all that is unfamiliar I try to survive, withstand the silence with a head held high, diminish the value of praise instantly and with resolute determination. Just as I reluctantly drag my most treasured bits out onto the blaring sun, I at once must weather the paralyzing silence or undue credit.  

This is my gift, an unbelievable gift that has been bestowed. This is not something that belongs to me, it is merely something that I have been entrusted with, in the hope that I may be a good keeper, a worthy carrier, a shell for thoughts that may be of use for others. With this sweet burden I travel and grow increasingly frustrated for there is not enough in me to make a difference. This talent is partial, it has been bestowed by mistake and the lion share rests somewhere far, with someone better than me. Forgive me, for even with this solemn realisation, I still cannot but continue to create. It will take both our times. It will make me feel worse and then better. I will be elated for moments and then thrown to the ground. I will shout for you in agony, I will call you in exuberant glee.  Some moments will see me get it right, some others will teach me the beauty in failure. I cannot but carry on and hope. Hope with all my might that these words, dubiously placed and ill formed, will still make you stop and read. That I will continue until it gets better, until it gets worth your while to read.