Travelling without a map
This is the post I have been avoiding writing.
Stories are meant to have beginnings, and middles, and ends. They have a path they cut into the depths of the forest, and while it may detour ocassionally to overcome obstacles, the reader is always certain that there is a destination, that however far off course we may be taken, however long it takes, we are travelling forward.
When I try to write my own story, I feel as though I am caught wandering in circles. I am those lost travellers who wonder if they have not passed this rock, or tree, before. Who find themselves once again blocked by the same obstacles that they had tried in vain to find another path around. Who shake their compass, and wonder which way is true North, which way leads out.
Which way leads out?
I started writing because I wanted to find a path of my own. But writing tricks you, because you begin to believe in the story. You write yourself into your own narrative, and you think, I must be moving forward.
But here I am again. Where the thought of myself makes me sick. Where I can't look in the mirror, or dress myself, without feeling disgusted. Where I can't bear the thought of anyone seeing me, or touching me, without my skin crawling. Where I don't want to leave the house, I can't make myself leave the house.
Hello, familiar landmarks. I thought I passed you before, but here I am. Again.
I started writing because I thought, this is not normal. These things are hard to write. They feel sometimes as if they cannot come out. But I wanted to put it down, in writing, for the days when I can't imagine feeling like this. To remind me that there were days that I did.
And there is a guide, here, in the depths of the forest. I found him when I thought I was most alone. I spoke to him when I was at my lowest, and he comforted me. He saw me and he loved me still.
Sometimes I wonder, will I ever find my way out?
Perhaps not. Perhaps it is not a place you leave. But there will always be guides along the path.
They will not tell you which direction to take.
They will not lead you out.
They will only sit with you a while, on this rock. And when you find it in you to get up and begin walking again, they will say, let me know where you end up.
And I will come sit with you again.
Stories are meant to have beginnings, and middles, and ends. They have a path they cut into the depths of the forest, and while it may detour ocassionally to overcome obstacles, the reader is always certain that there is a destination, that however far off course we may be taken, however long it takes, we are travelling forward.
When I try to write my own story, I feel as though I am caught wandering in circles. I am those lost travellers who wonder if they have not passed this rock, or tree, before. Who find themselves once again blocked by the same obstacles that they had tried in vain to find another path around. Who shake their compass, and wonder which way is true North, which way leads out.
Which way leads out?
I started writing because I wanted to find a path of my own. But writing tricks you, because you begin to believe in the story. You write yourself into your own narrative, and you think, I must be moving forward.
But here I am again. Where the thought of myself makes me sick. Where I can't look in the mirror, or dress myself, without feeling disgusted. Where I can't bear the thought of anyone seeing me, or touching me, without my skin crawling. Where I don't want to leave the house, I can't make myself leave the house.
Hello, familiar landmarks. I thought I passed you before, but here I am. Again.
I started writing because I thought, this is not normal. These things are hard to write. They feel sometimes as if they cannot come out. But I wanted to put it down, in writing, for the days when I can't imagine feeling like this. To remind me that there were days that I did.
And there is a guide, here, in the depths of the forest. I found him when I thought I was most alone. I spoke to him when I was at my lowest, and he comforted me. He saw me and he loved me still.
Sometimes I wonder, will I ever find my way out?
Perhaps not. Perhaps it is not a place you leave. But there will always be guides along the path.
They will not tell you which direction to take.
They will not lead you out.
They will only sit with you a while, on this rock. And when you find it in you to get up and begin walking again, they will say, let me know where you end up.
And I will come sit with you again.
posted by Riona at
2:58 PM
1 Comments:
You are gooood. I'll tell you that. You tell a good story that makes you want more.
By
Melissa, at 12:27 PM
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