Len — writing
Sep 1, 2018 · 2 min read

From the archives — the in-flight limbo of writing.

Protection. Safety. Stability she craved. Sometimes she wondered, had she really caved?

She thought she was tired of caring. Too much. But being inspired was what gave her wings in flight. Those wings were chewed up, cut short, lost their might. She had all but lost her pluck, her love of fight.

Shell-shocked, bruised and burned, she needed refuge. Some space to heal, to yearn.

There was another fear, she learned. Women don’t often open up when stressed from toe to head. She was such woman, much to her regret. Realizing it in the midst of her last launch — where she was so spent for pay that there was little desire left to touch.

She wanted touch, she craved it, but the shell grew thick. Her candle seemed burned right down to the wick. Men came and went, paraded to and fro, and when they wanted more, she’d smile, slip away, and close the door.

At home, alone in bed, she wanted to be held. Yet, the instability made her retreat, all touch withheld. Was another story to be told? She kept picking the wrong men, those who could not hold.

She was afraid to care again, yet wanted care to come. Knock on her door, then pound, break down the door and wrestle her with love.

Yet there was no door, she was always on the move. Bicoastal bird, constantly mid flight. So she decided to get doors, a couch and a floor — and stop the fight. One place, one address, one steady paycheck for some might.

The steadiness to settle her bruised heart. To unpack her boxes, dust off the books, get a fresh start. She wanted to learn the steady slow love’s art.

Another story for the books, re-written and re-told. She chose to learn how to be steady, plan ahead, hang pictures and reboot.

Illusion, much like what came before. Could she strengthen the resolve? To grow her wings, connections and break the old mold? By now, she knew that walls and doors and floors would never hold. The paint would dry, the pictures hang and drapery just right, she could and likely would let go and run with all her might.

And yet, she knew that this time she didn’t want to run alone.

She hoped to write a new story, to be told.

Len — writing

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I love the turn of phrase, its delicate embrace and lasting mental space. Otherwise, Product/Marketing and studying life heart in hand when I’m not.