Hushing the voices, a dark quill shattered.
When I listed my books from last to first and realized their titles formed a complete sentence, I was stunned. It was not something I consciously planned, and yet there it was: a cathartic trio of books wrapped up in a sentence. It seemed more like a message than a coincidence.
I love poetry. I always have. To stop writing it would seem impossible to me. I’ve been penning (mostly somber) poems for decades. In hindsight, I can see that I used writing as a way to purge my mental and emotional pain, and to expand my consciousness via subconscious understanding that bubbled up through. It was a successful endeavor, yet it has brought me to the place I currently find myself—a place of wondering: What now?
My awareness has changed. I experience what we call reality differently than I did before. I think differently. I feel different. While I had changed, the reason I wrote had not. I didn’t write just to bleed out the pain. I wrote because I loved writing.
My trio of books bear witness to my journey through the darkness. They are dark, raw, and melancholic, and yet at times, there are rays of light and hope—pieces of poetry and prose that inspire and enlighten. I was never alone in that darkness. None of us are.
While writing my books served as a catharsis for me, I have been told by some who read them that they helped with their sorrow as well. I am grateful for that. I am grateful the voices of the darkness and suffering that swirled through my mind and soul were hushed, and in the process of quieting them, a dark quill shattered.
With another dark quill I may again write; to be alive is to suffer in some way, yet the journey will be different. The darkness I traveled through before has been illuminated.
“Write hard and clear about what hurts.” ~ Ernest Hemingway.
I did, and it was worth it.
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