solace

I always have words just below the surface, too afraid to make their presence known. It didn’t used to be this way. Before, they would rush over me, ready to express themselves without hesitation, without reserve, unaware of their power or the consequences of their actions. Now I do not know how to quiet them without spilling myself entirely onto paper, so I hold on to my pen with a firm grip, not allowing their freedom. I hold my words prisoner, locked up tight somewhere far-away in the darkness. Some days they scream loudly and their cries are crystal clear, but on nights like tonight, they are so faint, barely confused whimpers within the walls of my mind. Yet, I do not feel entirely in control of them either, but merely a fellow captive convicted to a lifetime of solitude, trying to squeeze my way into their cell, behind the rows of letters that form nothing. They whisper to me when I sleep. They tell me that I can free myself by letting them go. Their independence requires me to look deep within. Instead, I turn my head and cover my eyes. Maybe they are not my hostages; maybe I am theirs. Somewhere along the line, their fate and mine became intertwined. They wrap around me, squeezing me from the inside. I fight back. I grab them, pushing back violently, trying to breathe without suffocating. The curve of every letter hugs my body so tightly that my fingers ache attempting to pry them off. I know they just want to be free of the restraints that bind them, as do I. Behind the bars of all the sentences never written, we are one and the same. I yearn to look to them for strength and they need to find solace in the ink from my pen. Currently, we are at a stand-still, sucking the force from each other like parasitic unspoken exclamations. So I sit here cowardly gazing at the tip of my pen, too frightened to pick it up because I know that once I give in, words will flow like blood. Crisp white pages will turn crimson before my very eyes and ink will swirl, taking on a life of its own. There will be no peace tonight, only this feeble attempt to dance around the truth, this wasted space of meaningless murmur.