Resolution

I put pen to paper but it doesn't move. Just creates a tiny black dot in the midst of the otherwise empty whiteness. It should flow smoothly, without stopping. Words that create sentences, paragraphs, pictures.

I haven’t written in years. Didn’t this used to be my thing? Always, my answer to the what-do-you-want-to-be-when-you-grow-up? question was Writer. I pictured myself in a Southern city, cobbled streets overhung with Spanish moss, air heavy with heat, working in my bookstore. Pigtails and overalls and barefeet. Chatting with the regulars. Sipping coffee as I recommended books. Writing late into the night with a gray cat purring around my ankles.

And, somewhere along the line, it became a vision and nothing more. An ideal but not a pursued goal. Maybe, someday, eventually, it would happen. But I stopped working towards it. I got a cat and I named her Flannery O’Connor, but she wasn’t as sweet and purr-y and inspirational as I thought she would be. I stopped writing late into the night.

And so there is a single black dot that stares back at me as I stare at it. I imagine it twisting and winding around, creating a confluent line. A line that indicates something. One letter hooks to another and the words have meaning. They generate tears that fall in rivulets down wet cheeks and cause laughter to bubble forth.  And though the emotions are momentary, the words get into people’s minds and leave an impression, like a photograph that fades over time but will never be looked at without a smile and memories.

The pen is lying motionless on the table. The words and thoughts are still trapped inside, making it feel weighty, and my hand is glad to be rid of its heaviness. I will try to free them tomorrow.