It is a Friday evening, and the kids are in bed. There is a stream of tiny little thoughts invading my mind. It is time I start writing again, though it feels like it has been so long now that I don’t remember how the words used to flow so easily through me and onto the screen.
The best time to write for me has been in the car while driving. That is when my thoughts start being dissected and start transforming into images of words inside my head. Of course, that is the worst time for me to write, since I’m, y’know, driving and all. It has been years since I’ve felt at ease with the pen — or rather, the keyboard. It has been years since the images in my mind turned into images on the screen, curved with letters and formed into words that color others’ eyes. I wonder if this gift that used to come so prevalent can make its way home again.
Home. Home has always been where the words are. Before I was a therapist, I was a writer. Before I was a mother, I was writer. Before I was a photographer, I was a writer. I met my husband through words. And now, for years it seems, I have abandoned home.
Let’s come home together, these thoughts of mine. It is time again that I start rebuilding my legacy through words.