I've Forgotten How to Write

But I remember what it felt like

I remember when I used to get sad.

I would be sad and I would write.

I wouldn’t doom scroll.

Maybe I would cry.

But I’d always grab a laptop and I’d type until the hole in my heart was filled.

I’ve forgotten how to write when I’m sad, but I remember what it felt like.

It felt like invisible hands built by my own mind kissing tears stains off my face. It felt like fingers flying over a keyboard, and with each word that exited my brain and made it’s way onto a page, a rhythm sewing my open heart closed. For a second the world would quiet. For a minute I wasn’t alone. It was me, my characters, my mind, against the world. It felt my pain. It healed my hurt.

I’ve forgotten how to write when I’m sad, but I remember what it felt like. It felt like home.

I remember when I used get mad.

I would get mad and I would write.

I wouldn’t stare and seeth.

Maybe I would yell.

But I always grabbed my laptop and I’d type until the steam was gone.

I’ve forgotten how to write when I’m mad, but I remember what it felt like.

It felt like validation in the form of silent whispers. My fingers would fly across a keyboard as I formed arguments that might never be said. I carved pathways out of roadblocks, and built characters that fought battles I wasn’t strong enough to face. I would satisfy my voice, and stare at a blinking cursor, and it would tell me the day isn’t today, but one day I’d be heard. For a second my voice mattered. For a minute, I knew this wasn’t the end.

I’ve forgotten how to write when I’m mad, but I remember what it felt like. It felt like armor.

I remember when I used to get scared.

I would get scared and I would write.

I wouldn’t freeze in place.

Maybe I would scream.

But I always grabbed my laptop and I’d type until the dark disappeared.

I’ve forgotten how to write when I’m scared, but I remember what it felt like.

It felt like the words of women before me holed up in cramped rooms. Lanterns dimmed low as they brought pen to paper and summoned the courage to tell the world what they know. My shaking fingers and thrumming heart were squeezed to a slow by invisible hands that had to push through far more than my heart could take. I would build walls and create weapons with nothing but fast fingers and an even quicker mind. I would push the dark away, and I would tell the world what I know. I’d fight my own battles because I knew my words were mine. For a second the dark wasn’t real. For a minute, my body was my own.

I’ve forgotten how to write when I’m scared, but I remember what it felt like. It felt like being guided to light.

I remember when I used to get tired.

I would get tired and I would write.

I wouldn’t feel defeated and sleep.

Maybe I would down caffeine.

But I always grabbed my laptop and I’d type until I’d reminded myself I was worth something.

I’ve forgotten how to write when I’m tired, but I remember what it felt like.

It felt like pushing a bolder up a hill. My body hardly strong enough to move my legs. One after the other. I would peak my head past the mass wondering just how much farther I had to go, and I’d be filled with dread as I realized the end was hardly there to begin. Then the silence would fill with harsh words. I’d flinch at the sound until they formed meaning and I’d look around to see the earth had turned black. Filled with words of my own making. The sound was that of my mind stringing sentences together. I built skyscrapers. Moved mountains. I moved my feet, one after the other, and I willed the top of that mountain closer to me. It obeyed. For a second, I wasn’t fatigued. For a minute, I knew I was stronger than I’ve ever let myself believe.

I’ve forgotten how to write when I’m tired, but I remember what it felt like. It felt like being accomplished.

I remember when I used to feel.

I would feel and I would write.

I didn’t stare at blank screens and turn them off.

Maybe I’d create utter nonsense.

But I always grabbed my laptop and made something of the world I looked at every day.

I’ve forgotten how to write when I feel, but I remember what it felt like.

It was the words that I learned to write with shaky hands and small balled fists at five years old with eyes full of wonder. Words weren’t just codes anymore. They had meaning in my life. Meaning that carried until it wasn’t just a part of me, it was inside of me.

I remember what it felt like to bleed ink when I cried. To taste graphite as I slept.

I lived in words. Basked in their glory.

I took them from the sky and manipulated their form. I built mountains, castles, cities, kingdoms, worlds out nothing. They came to me on their own from the dead leaves on the ground, the smell of grass in the air. They surprised me by sneaking out of hushed whispers in aisles of the grocery store, or drunken conversations at birthday parties.

There was a time when I wasn’t 21 and the world felt endless because my mind was endless. I don’t remember what it feels like to have that sort of power anymore, but I pray one day it comes back.

In the meantime, I yell into the expanse, and I cling to the ink that is squeezed out of the air. I put off work when graphite chokes my senses, and turn off my phone when I’m in a smoke induced haze.

I feel my way through the dark, forcing my feelings onto paper. I hold onto fiction like a lifeline, praying to women like deities in my sleep.

Angie Thomas, Tiffany D. Jackson, Nicola Yoon. A trinity of writers I hope to be. Toni Morrison, I hope you hear my whispers. Awaeke Emezi, you’ve done more for me than you know. Elisabeth Acevedo, you put me in your stories, and I pray I can only do the same for the next me.

The next bright eyed, curly haired, ink stained, mind winded, young girl. The one that smells graphite in the air, and sees words in kicked dirt. I hope she hears my voice com

e through when my hands fly across that keyboard, and I hope she hears it loud and clear.

I hope she never forgets what it is to turn tears into palaces, or the dark into light. I hope she always remembers the time will come where one day the world will sink into despair. People will be lost. People will be scared. And like a sunflower or a willow tree they will bend to her whispers, because much like a beacon, her words will carry light that carve pathways out of roadblocks, and she will guide us back to a life where we remember what it’s like.

To be sad. To be mad. To be scared. To be tired.

I haven’t always remembered what it’s like to feel these things, but I feel them know.

I may not be a beacon, but I’m my own dim lantern.

And for now, I can be my own home. My own armor. My guided light. I feel accomplishment now.

It’s been a long long time since I’ve felt anything at all.