Once more...

 It was ages ago I started this thing. My sweet, precious, darling blog. 

The love I had for it was vast and constant, 

perhaps it was more a love of output. 

Of expression. 

My hearts content.

Years of dedication to it and then one day, the well dried. 

After a decade plus of pouring my heart out, searching, seeking, outpouring... then one day, cringe and I deleted almost all of it.. (a huge regret I will always hold) the expression stopped all together.  

It was as if I couldn't bear the thought of being seen. 

     

 until recently.. 

the quietest whispers of the muses said to me, "...and what about blogging, darling."

and it wasn't in a moment of seeking, no not at all. 

It was in a moment of desperation to get to the heart of this grief. 

To actually accept it. 

ew

Acceptance? 

Who is she.  

Not many times in my life, had I written fiction for the sake of it. Then, all of a sudden it was all I read all I wrote, all I consumed. Now that inspiration has halted, I know the block. It's glaringly obvious. 

Grief

That rat bastard. Staring me right in the face, zapping all the expression once more. Grief in a different form...One I've never become quite so acquainted with. This is the one that will either do me in, or ask everything of me to go through, once more. 

Asking of me to go right into the heart of it. 

This grief stricken, vast ocean of feeling, of love, of constant seeking...

dear lord.

 To seek inspiration and acceptance. To get out of my own fucking way. You're telling me I have to go through the pain, this weight on my chest and love it? all the same? ugh.

okay fine, I guess..

If I wish to get this inspiration back, so I can finish a damn book, so I can finish a damn story. 

So I can breath again..

I need to delve right into my own core and pull it out. 

Face the obvious and if I want to write good I'm going to need to stop being a lil bitch about this all. 

Oh, but I do love a good whine and lay about. 

I suppose, if I don't prioritize the sorting of it all, the outpouring and express. 

I'll go stark raving mad. 

I've been there before and I'd like to not go back. 

So you mean to tell me, feverishly scribbling into my journal isn't going to be enough?

You get a little whisper, you follow the intuitive urgings and that's that. 

The muses lead you to the rest.

and oh how I've missed it.

"Death's gifts are many, one of which is a mirror. When we lose someone to it, it shows us who we are- stripped and reflective. What are the things we hold in value regarding death and its many faces? How do we respond to something so finite and inevitable? Do we embrace the unknown? Okay with having no answer? Do we place a name and resting home after death's kiss? Do we fear death? Paranoid that it could be lurking around the corner, ready to strike at any moment. Do we deny its presence? it's constant reminder? What do we choose to do with this knowledge? Do we embrace life? 

Isn't that our duty? Do we not owe this to those who have gone? Are we capable?" 

- taken from my private collections