The Wrtier Within

The writer within me is trying to get out.  She’s screaming.  She’s pleading.  She’s fighting.   In search of the voice she knew she had, she’s begging to be heard.  But I had buried her.   The shrill sounds of her voice were cast deep within a well of the unknown, of the fear, of the forgotten.  I didn’t know how to bring her back to life.  I didn’t know if I could.  So I went on living.  No.  Not living.  Un-living, because without her I couldn’t be me.  I tried to suppress her but she kept coming out.  Her words.  On the backs of receipts, scribbled on envelopes, jotted down on any and everything within grasp.  They bombarded my head.  All these thoughts, all these words and I didn’t know where to put them.  Because I was afraid of her.  Her voice was so much bigger than my own.  She was bolder than I was.  She had no fear, no shame, just ambition.  Her words spoke, they stung, they soared.  I didn’t know if I could keep up.   I didn’t know if I could fly or if I wanted to.  But time and time again, she keeps rising up reminding me that she’s still there.  The reason I stare off into no particular place for no particular amount of time.  The reason I’m there and not there all at once.   I’m lost without her.  Her words.  They’re always knocking.   Banging on the outskirts of the once upon a time.  Screaming.  Pleading.  Fighting. …. And I’ve decided to let her out. 

Miranda Evans