“Write anything you like.
Nothing you write will be wrong”.
She pushed the paper towards me,
Positioned the pen in my hand.
I stared at the paper, blurry-eyed.
It stared blankly back at me.
But I gripped that pen tightly.
It was real.
This moment, right now, is real.
I think aloud like this, because
thinking is hard these days, and –
My thoughts enter and leave consciousness,
without effort or explanation.
Other thoughts stick, and spin and swirl –
And get in the way.
Thoughts of ending, of crying.
How long have I been here?
I have lost so much time.
It doesn’t move like it used to, I’m sure it doesn’t.
It trips and gutters,
Freewheels or freeze frames.
I have learnt to be mindful.
To watch candle flames burn,
Then flicker and fade;
white and amber and honeycomb.
This is part of being mindful, I think –
this writing. This weaving, and forming,
And sewing the words together.
A stitch in time.
I don’t want to write.
I want someone’s eyes to meet mine;
Someone to hold me, kiss me in the evening sun;
To run their fingers through my hair.
I liked that once.
She said I am not me at the moment.
I’m not sure who I am.
She said this would end soon;
I would remember then,
Remember who I am.
I just have to hold tight,
I am holding this pen, ever so tightly.
One day, we might be on the same page again.
Maybe I can write myself there.