I haven’t written in a while. I’ve thought about it every day, though: the thing that happened, the comment he made, the smile she shared. I’ve thought about writing and not writing. I’ve thought about the words, how I share them into the ether and wonder what eyes might lay upon them. What thoughts might be had of me, about me, in spite of me? 

I wrote before, every day. The small things, the sad things, the lost moments that took my happiness away. It was easier to write when that was all I needed to do. When it drove me forward and kept me here all at once. Then the everything flooded in. The tasks, errands, and thoughts of responsibility. They overtook me. They left me stunned still, so my fingers couldn’t reach out for the keyboard. It was a few small movements but there were miles in between each. 

How else can I explain my inability? Standstill stuck in repetitive thought knowing that all I need is at my fingertips but unable to inch toward it. I wonder if it is still for me. Is this the block I’ve built against myself?

Gordon wrote every day. I envied his ability to battle his demons and put his innermost thoughts into the world. We wrote so similarly, eerily similar. Routine was his friend. It would be mine, too, if I didn’t hate it so much. He wrote, and I told him I should do better. I should write because I know myself in my writing. I see who I am, who I am not, and the words release me. My heart feels lighter even now. Just the smallest weight lifting from me with each tapping finger. He wrote, and I envied him. I knew I should do better, but but but. . .

Then he was gone. Gone is such a strange thing to think about. Because in thought they are here. They are the smile we always knew, they are the running joke we shared, they are the show we talked about together. They are an empty space for all those things to continue to take up space in our lives. He was gone, and I thought about his words and writing. How diligent he was. How he left so much of himself behind for us. Whether that was his intention or not. His hands still shaping my world whenever I find myself missing him more than I can imagine. 

I told myself I would write more. Not every day, because my life is shoved full of extras that take away from the substance. I would write a few times a month, for me, and for Gordon. Because one of us still could. We could still shape life around loss and pain. Even if he isn’t here to guide it like before. 

I did great for most of 2023. I wrote several times a month. Small things, big things, just things that were words because I said I would. Then, I was stunted shut. The words are always there for me. I feel them swirling about any time something happens. But it’s this frozenness that stops me. Not a wall or block, but this “I’m tired, I can’t, why should I?” Then I spiral into self-loathing. I swore I would. It’s been too long. I can’t even uphold this for me like I should have. 

The words still waiting to be released. The words aching to be free of me. I wonder if everything feels as they do. Trapped inside me, needing freedom and release. 

So here I am, full of words. To the point, I can’t hold them back any longer. They are cascading out of me because they finally found there way through to action. Forcing me to do what I know I should, even though I can’t make myself. 

I don’t know if anyone reads these words. I don’t know what you think of them. I don’t know that they matter to anyone at all. All I know is that they bide their time until they worm their way free. Whether they make a difference, are ignored, or simply . . . here they are.

As they always wanted, as they always will.