Thursday, August 30, 2012

Ron's Column: If You've Never Cried Through Words...



You hurt. But your pen doesn’t.

You suffer. But your pen doesn’t.

You scream. But your pen doesn’t.

Over and over again, it comes through for you. In the darkest of moments, when no release is available, when nothing can pull you out of the deepest of lulls, it is there, waiting. Waiting for you to give it the chance it always knew you would.

The relationship is like no other. It’s one of the only with no letdowns. If there is a disagreement, it never argues. If you need to take your time, it never frets. If you need to be alone for awhile, it shows patience.

A writer’s pen is their everything.

And it’s the only true way to get through pain.

I lost my nephew in early July. I was angry. I was angry at the why. I was angry at the how. I was angry at every nook and cranny of the tragedy. It made no sense. And no one could tell me otherwise.

I voiced my displeasure at the smallest of things. My mouth ran with no filter. I couldn’t control it. I tried typing about my emotions, but a keyboard just wouldn’t provide the comfort I needed.

So I picked up a pen, and started to write. It started to flow. I started to cry. My hand started to shake but the words continued to come. It had patiently waited for me to call its name. For me to realize that it was the only thing that could keep me sane, keep me from doing anything I’d regret.

The patience it showed was that of a grandparent, understanding to a fault. It knows my every weakness, knows my every struggle, and yet, allows me to go through them because I will come back to it stronger.

I write my way through pain.

I write my way through pain.

I write my way through pain.

If you haven’t cried through words, then you’ve never truly written… If you haven’t cried through words, then you’ve never truly written… If you haven’t cried through words, then you’ve never truly written…

I’ve written. I’ve written pieces no one will ever see. I’ve written pieces that I threw away soon after because the catharsis was complete. It was only for me. It wasn’t for public consumption. Just a conversation between myself and a companion who has never judged me, never disagreed with my methods. All it’s ever done is allow me to express myself through its eyes at a moment’s notice.

The pain I’ve felt can be seen through my words. It always has and it always will.

People say, ‘you can’t walk a day in my shoes.’

Well, you couldn’t walk a day through my pen…

-ron-