And I Call Myself a Writer...

As I sifted through the dust and piles of decomposing and moldy carboard boxes in my garage, I stumbled upon a few treasures that had long since been lost amongst the mountains of paper, unwashed clothing and unsightly knick knacks I'd collected over the years. To date I have unearthed a pile of journals dating decades back when I was still trying desperately to perfect my cursive writing at the ripe old aging of thirteen; many, many outfits that I wished I'd never worn, but offer some wonderful memories of days that will only ever be etched in my mind, and even some useful items that I can still utilize today, like that picture of the rotten ex whom I can use to line a birdcage with if I had one.

However, the most beautiful artificat that I stumbled across had absolutely nothing to do with me, but rather it is a letter written by a very dear friend of mine whose words brought me to tears as I read it until my vision was so blurry I could not go on. She is one of those effortlessly brilliant writers who is so talented it oftentimes makes me quite ill, but I support and love her because she is not only wonderful, but one of the few people on this earth who I hope to know until the day I die.

Over the years we have had our share of trials and tribulations, coming of age discoveries, laughter and tears... but above all, we have been there for each other as much as our busy lives will allow. We don't speak very often, but when we do I always end up amazed at her quick wit. It is foolish of me to think I can possibly keep up with her.

Tonight I was reminded of just how talented she is.... As I brushed away cobwebs, filtered through sand and cracked open the pages of my journals, a singular paper fell onto my lap amongst the dusty, dry garage on this quiet Spring evening. It was a letter she had written me six years ago that she titled "The beauty of pain, as felt by a writer". I will not say what caused her this pain, nor will I disclose her name or even the letter in its entirety, because pain, especially this type, is always best kept private; however, her words were so emotionally raw, so haunting, so perfectly heartbreaking, that it would have been selfish of me to simply return them to the confines of a dirty old journal. So here they are, words that exquistely describe a pain that we have probably all felt at one time or another but have never quite had the talent, or the courage, to express. As I read it again, I feel honored that she chose to share this sorrow with me.

And my friend, if you ever read this, please know that I will always be at your side, no matter how dark the world may seem. I will hold a light, even if it is the tiniest flicker of a candle, to help you out of that darkness....

"You know, pain is a very diverse thing. To say that pain hurts is a very inaccurate statement. When I discovered [this secret] the pain was a dead feeling... almost not a pain at all, but a dull ache of just another mystery (unfortunately) solved.

We writers are a very...'feeling' bunch. You could say we're drama queens, but to feel and to write about how we feel is a gift, I believe, and to be eloquent about it is an important skill for all of humanity to learn from.

Do I welcome pain? Not necessarily. But I suppose I can learn from it, and write about it, and remember how to deal the next time....

Yes, this is a new kind of pain. Does it hurt? Hardly. It[s] an exquisitely sharp pang that radiates from my chest. It makes me nauseated and yet also heightens my senses. It has a sound, too... it is a crushing sound, and there is a monstrous roaring in my ears, so loud I am dizzy from it.... Dramatic? yes. But so is the breaking of my heart."