When the words dry up (2016)
I can speak.
Loudly. Boldly. Even eloquently.
Always quickly.
Often peppered with examples or stories
Or with seemingly endless questions.
Words can flow out of my mouth with relative ease
It seems.
That’s what they all think.
That’s what they all say.
That’s what they all believe.
I know better, though.
It’s an illusion.
Because speaking, for me, from me
Is at best a hybrid between
Innumerable scripts I’ve learned/created,
A complicated mental flow chart,
And impulse.
It’s not sophisticated, no matter how it appears
It’s not easy
And it dang sure ain’t natural.
It’s necessary,
And even occasionally pleasant
But it’s always foreign,
Always work.
My real speech,
My real voice,
Was born of words.
Words in my head,
Words from my heart,
Words I write,
Words I type.
They are me,
I am them.
They are my realism. My authenticity.
My voice.
My soul’s expression.
But lately my soul is broken
Beaten
Weakened
Lost
Jaded
Defeated
Betrayed
Crapped on.
My heart is bleeding
My mind is reeling
I “look” okay
I “sound” the same
But I’m not.
Not at all.
I once thought I was strong
I once thought I could endure
I believed it, deeply
And now I know I was wrong
My strength is depleted
My endurance drained
My reality? Shaken
Everything...emptied.
I have only the energy
To go through the motions.
No vitality
No spark
No ingenuity
I can just exist
Can just hold on
Can just wait
I can’t do anything else.
What am I waiting for? I don’t know.
But I’m here.
As It’s not over yet
I just have to be,
Exist,
Keep going.
My words...
Gone.
My voice...
Silenced.
I can’t write like I once could.
I have lost my voice.
I have nothing
Without my voice.
I have nothing -
Nothing to say.
Nothing comes -
Ever.
Empty,
Quiet,
A coffin of silence
That doesn’t end.
I have nothing,
Nothing to say.
No words come,
No thoughts come.
Imprisoned by the vacuous words
From my lips.
That sound like the right thing to say.
They are hollow
But they are all that’s left.
A shell of me.
My pen stilled,
My keyboard dusty.
My mind frazzled,
My words trapped
Somewhere.
I have nothing,
Nothing to say.
My family is intact - for now.
My life, by the world’s standards, is good.
I am fine
Fine.
Just fine!
Right?
Only I’m not.
Not at all.
I didn’t want it to happen.
I don’t know how to fix it.
I don’t know how to stop it.
When the words dry up, what do you do?
When the words dry up, what do you have?
When the words dry up, who then are you? |
| Photo credit: Image obtained from Sacred Beauty blog |
Recommended citation: Giwa Onaiwu, Morénike. (2016). When the words dry up. Just Being Me...Who Needs "Normalcy," Anyway? [Personal essay.]